


Dismantle the Sun

by indyheart (omfaye)



Series: Dismantle the Sun [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, F/M, Mythology References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2019-07-08 16:32:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 37,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15934232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omfaye/pseuds/indyheart
Summary: Book 1: "Dusk" / Dystopian AU - A tale of loss, redemption, courage under fire, and unexpected feelings. A slow romance between HG/SS. Hermione has been on the run from Snatchers for over a year. Everything changes when she's caught. / Very original. / Some angst, but humor too.





	1. Prologue: Imprisonment

****

 

 ****Disclaimer and initial author’s note: All characters you recognize belong to J.K. Rowling** ** ****and a** ** ****ll original characters are mine and I hope that you enjoy them.** ** ****W** ** ****hile this story starts out pretty dark, it doesn’t stay this way, I promise. Overall, the theme is courage under fire. Many thanks to Davros Fan, my beta, for his feedback and** ** ****valuable** ** ****help with** ** ****the plot** ** ****.** **

 

****Warnings: Multiple character deaths, mentions of abuse (mostly here in the prologue), and AU in the extreme.** **

__

****Premise: What might happen if Harry Potter didn’t defeat Voldemort?** **

 

THE TOWER, UNPLOTTABLE

__May 1999 to April 2000_ _

__

****Day 1** **

****

“Leave her alone!” Harry strained against the chains keeping him from reaching Hermione with all of his strength, bruising his wrists and his ankles in the process.

 

Hermione cried out again, louder this time.

 

Harry spit out a mouthful of blood and saliva and attempted to lunge at the eldest Malfoy.

 

Lucius Malfoy flicked his free wrist at the others in the crowded cell, never taking his eyes off of The Mudblood, who was now gasping for breath on the floor. “Someone shut him up.” He resumed his curse with a bored “Crucio.”

 

“Silencio!” Bellatrix gripped The-Boy-Who-Lost’s chin in her spidery-thin fingers and forced him to watch, her fingers digging in harder each time Harry tried to jerk his head away.

 

The next few hours were the worst in Harry Potter’s life.

 

When the Death Eaters finally left the dark cell, Harry knelt as close to Hermione as he could. She had passed out from the pain. There was not enough slack in his chains for him to be able to get very close. He barely noticed that he was crying. “I’m sorry,” he gasped through thick tears, his voice hoarse from screaming, “Hermione, I’m so sorry!” Guilt was a leaden anvil in his stomach. Sickening sweat broke out on his brow again and he knew he was going to be sick.

 

He shuffled back, his stomach rolling. He struggled to the furthest corner possible before he threw up, sobbing now. Guilt, fear, anger, hate, grief; everything tore at him, tore at his stomach, and he heaved for a long time after there was nothing left.

 

Harry shuffled back to the wall and leaned against it, his head swimming and pounding.

 

 _ _It’s all my fault. My fault, my fault, my fault.__  The words were relentless and the truth of them stole his strength.

 

He slumped to his side, laying down, and prayed for a few hours of oblivion.

 

****Day 4** **

****

Hermione trembled on the cold ground. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen, and heavy with exhaustion, but she watched Harry sleep, biting her lip. Her thoughts were scattered; she could barely keep her thoughts focused over the pain and the worry.

 

She had－she had to keep it together.

 

Someone would rescue them and then life would go back to how it was supposed to be; good would triumph once again. That was the natural order of the world. Sure, evil had its day, but in the end, light and good always won.

 

She had to hold on.

 

****Day 250** **

 

Harry was so quiet. He hadn’t looked at his food or at Hermione in so long.

 

Hermione strained against her chains and tried to get him to meet her eyes. “Harry,” she croaked, her voice unrecognisable. He didn’t look up at her. “Harry,” she tried again, forcing the words past the soreness of her throat, “please, please, look at me.”

 

No matter what Hermione said, she couldn’t draw him out.

 

“Please, Harry,” she cried.

 

Harry rested his head back against the cold stone wall, staring up blankly. There was very little light in their cell and he couldn’t make out the ceiling. He pretended that he was looking up at the night sky.

 

Hermione’s voice floated towards him and then faded away. He could hear the words, but he couldn’t feel them.

 

He didn’t feel anything.

 

“Harry, you have to eat, please.”

 

It was funny. Harry wasn’t even hungry. He hadn’t felt that all-consuming, gnawing emptiness in a long time. After awhile, he closed his eyes, hoping to fall asleep. But, before he drifted off, a spark of emotion awakened when he realized that Hermione was crying quietly, trying not to make any noise. Harry lifted his head, surprised by how heavy it felt. “Hermione?” he rasped, his voice almost completely gone.

 

Hermione wiped her eyes and scrambled to her knees, straining against her chains. “Harry!” Harry blinked slowly at her, wishing that he could see her face. He was in a blur of grey, here in this hole, without his glasses. “Harry!” She started sobbing in earnest, her shoulders shaking, and Harry shuffled forward as far as he could, alarmed.

 

“What’s wrong?” __Merlin, I’m an idiot. What isn’t wrong,__ Harry chastised himself.

It took Hermione a minute to get herself under control and Harry felt more and more weary each second. It was as if he was being swallowed up in cotton. He fought hard against the numbness and reached out towards her, bumping into a tray of broth. The rattle of bowl against metal tray startled him. “What...?” He wanted to ask: __What is it? What’s wrong? What can I do? Dear God, how can we still be down here?__

__

Hermione shook her head and hugged her stomach. Her broken whisper pierced him. “Don’t leave me.”

 

Harry was trembling and he had to lay down; the cotton-y feeling was winning. “Right...here,” he whispered against the stone floor. The cold felt nice for once. It didn’t bite like it usually did. He closed his eyes.

 

“Harry, please! Eat something! Drink a bit of water. Anything!”

 

Hermione’s cries fell on deaf ears. The exhaustion was just too heavy and Harry fell into a deep sleep.

 

The cell’s iron door opened with a reverberating bang, causing Hermione to start in alarm. She shrunk back against the wall.

 

The Lestranges strolled in, Rodolphus strutting to the middle of the dark room. His hate-filled eyes burned into hers for a moment before he looked down at Harry. With a malicious grin, he kicked Harry－and kept kicking until he realized that Harry was no more than a rag doll.

 

Harry’s head lolled sickeningly to the side after the attack and then there was no more movement.

 

“What have you done?” Bellatrix hissed, pulling her husband back towards the door.

 

Hermione wailed and pulled against her restraints to try to reach Harry, but no matter how hard she willed the chains to stretch, her magical stores were completely depleted.

 

Seeing Harry lying there, empty...Hermione dropped to her knees.

 

It was hard enough losing Ron during the last battle. She was used to that ache by now and thought she knew what grief felt like. Anxiety, too. She had no way of knowing if anyone she cared about had been killed or even suffered a similar fate in a nearby cell. The not knowing had driven her to the edge of her sanity these past several months.

 

Rising fear was choking her.

 

__Alone. Alone now._ _

__

She barely heard the Lestranges’ panicked voices arguing what to do with him. She never noticed when Bellatrix and her husband departed, having decided to just leave the body and pretend that he had died of ‘natural causes’. Hermione sobbed even as she acknowledged that at least he was now free. He was with Ron and his parents and Sirius. She hoped he was finding peace and was happy. But, now she was truly on her own. And she was afraid.

 

She cried until dehydration stole her tears. Her eyes, swollen and dry and itchy, closed as she laid down as close to Harry’s body as she could.

 

****Day 251 to 330** **

 

Hermione didn’t speak. She often felt that she might be going crazy. But, did crazy people wonder if they were crazy or were they just crazy? It was hard to know for sure.

 

****Day 331** **

 

A Death Eater charged with the new task of taking Hermione her food once a day was shocked at the state he found her in.

 

When he decided to Apparate with her to safety, to what appeared to be an abandoned countryside, what Hermione thought of as her next lifetime began.


	2. Chapter 1: The Burrow

 

DEVON, ENGLAND

__September 2001, seventeen months after Hermione’s escape_ _

 

As daybreak approached, birds began to flit from branch to ground, chirping and digging in a steep, wooded valley two miles south of Ottery St. Catchpole. Emerging undergrowth had been slowly and steadily resurfacing along the forest floor, though tree trunks were still black with soot residue from the previous summer’s raging wildfires. Most of the native woodland animals had abandoned these woods about three years ago, when the first series of wildfires and natural disasters began－but birds, stubborn and carefree fellows that they are, continued to nest and thrive in the surviving trees.

 

The dip of the forest floor felt almost peaceful to Hermione as she lay in a bed of freshly-fallen leaves, and she slept on.

 

Her days were long as she put more miles behind her. Last winter had nearly killed her. Awakening to each gruelling day, she often didn’t have anything at all to fill the void in her stomach and she always felt exhausted from the constant shivering. If she was hungry enough, she’d slowly try to chew white birch or pine bark. Warm months, though, were almost okay. Her first spring had been a season of rebirth for her. She would never forget slowly coming back to life, the dead brown of the countryside changing, reawakening around her, the playful birds and the bubbling springs thawing the wall of protection she had put up around her soul.

 

There was still fear, of course. Snatchers were a very real threat. She was wary of all strangers and existed only on the outskirts of civilization. Summer became her favourite time of year, the few months when she had enough to eat. Like a bear preparing for hibernation, she stuffed herself on wild berries, fruit when she could find some, dandelions, and clover.

 

The chill in the air, however, heralded another changing of seasons and autumn was fast closing in.

 

Since her escape, she had been trying to reach The Burrow, slowly but steadily making her way through Scotland and then England. Every ounce of determination within her drew her to the childhood home she loved and missed, but, as darkness had fallen the night before, she had grown too nervous to continue any further.

 

With no shelter in sight, she had burrowed into the leaves, trying to blend in with the broken darkness of the forest floor, and had fallen into an uneasy sleep.

 

As the bird calls grew more insistent, Hermione turned onto her other side, still asleep. Her first several months on the run, every sound had jolted her awake and into an involuntary defensive position despite her bone-deep exhaustion. Now, though, while she woke up often to check that there were no Snatchers searching nearby, she slept through the natural sounds of the outdoors because she was so accustomed to hearing them.

 

The pull of sleep warred with the risen sun, and after a few minutes, Hermione turned over again and grimaced, stretching very carefully to warm up her cramped muscles. She pulled herself up onto her knees and then to her feet. Several bones protested loudly as she started her morning stretch while she looked around warily. The land was sloped and from a distance one would really be able to appreciate the rolling hills. The ground was moist from a light dew and the early September wind was brisk, fervent, and ill-tempered. Hermione’s teeth chattered and her jaw was aching. She shivered as she adjusted her heavy knitted sweater. She reached into her small crossover purse and pulled out an almost-empty bottle of water and a small handful of hickory nuts.

 

Oh, to have ham. Roast beef. Mashed potatoes. __Gravy__.

 

Breakfast more or less taken care of, she dusted her hands off, making her way down to a nearby stream. She paused as she dipped the bottle into the trickling water. The unkempt woman reflected on the creek bed was unrecognisable. Hermione’s eyes darkened at the sight she made. She fingered her hair, always impossible, but now a mass of snarls, rat nests, and disintegrating braids. Her once warm cinnamon and cocoa eyes were now skittish, cold, and dim. Her face was thin and dark, tanned and leathery from so much exposure to the sun. Hermione set the bottle on the ground and felt her cheek, then sighed wistfully. Her throat started clogging up and she blinked rapidly to dispel the threat of tears. She rolled up her sleeves and scrubbed her face and her arms despite the frigid cold water until her exposed skin was red and blessedly grime-free. Tears again threatened as she tried to clean her fingernails, but she held them back. If she allowed herself to cry, she was not sure how she would ever be able to stop.

 

After drinking her fill, Hermione unsteadily rose to her feet, ordering herself to get a grip and to get moving. If she pushed herself, she could be at The Burrow in about an hour. Slipping on her sunglasses, she left the stream and headed south once more. She made easy progress across the rolling hills and meadows and she was only slightly out of breath when she recognized the orchard where many a spirited game of Quidditch had been held. Her breath suddenly started to hitch and her heart to pound and she increased her pace up the last hill.

 

Topping the rise, she jerked to a stop.

 

There was no patchwork house rising unsteadily into the sky. No overgrown garden, no broom shed, no chicken coop, no garage, no Ford Anglia. The Burrow and its surroundings were burnt to the ground, the scorched masonry and rock walls left behind overgrown by knotgrass and stubborn weeds, lingering ashes still shifting gently in the breeze.

 

Hermione’s heart sunk. After a few minutes of stunned immobility, she moved forward slowly and investigated the ruins, convincing herself once and for all that it wasn’t a glamour or a mirage or a hallucination. Spent, she made her way back down the hill, then stopped, too emotionally drained to go any further today.

 

She didn’t cry. She sat and stared around the field until the sun began to set and twilight and then dusk enveloped the world once again. Still feeling numb, she acknowledged the evenfall by simply laying down where she sat and stared up at the stars until her eyes grew too heavy.


	3. Chapter 2: The Raid

NEAR ALLERFORD, SOMERSET, ENGLAND

__One week later_ _

 

The sky outside the cave was just starting to light, the horizon a flaming orange easing into the stubborn navy of night. The temperature had dropped steadily during the dark hours and the small fire in the back of the cave had burned down to nothing but cold ashes. Hermione turned over in her uneasy sleep, trembling from the cold.

 

Twenty minutes later, continuous trilling from chaffinch songbirds broke into her unconsciousness and Hermione slowly opened her eyes. Every morning they felt like sandpaper, and it took her a minute to focus. The fact that she was easy prey for someone while she was sleeping or waking did not escape her attention and Hermione groaned, coming to her feet with a few creaks and a supporting hand on the low cave wall.

 

Every time she stood up, blood pounded through her ears and it took several seconds before she could hear anything over the roar. After her head cleared, Hermione leaned over slightly because of the low ceiling, several bones popping, and shuffled towards the light. She exited her shelter carefully, peering left and right with each step.

 

The wind had died, thank Merlin, and Hermione resumed stretching.

 

She had skirted the picturesque village of Allerford, Somerset yesterday evening, and she planned to go back for a raid today. It had been almost a month since she had last set foot in a house. She avoided it as much as possible, but she was very low on supplies and winter would be here before too much longer. Hermione rubbed her forehead, a sign of her weariness, as her thoughts drifted to the Weasleys and The Burrow. Like prodding a cavity with her tongue, the thoughts were impossible to stop and only left her feeling worse.

 

Hiking through the woods, she stopped about half a mile away from the cave where she had set a simple snare with a little bit of wire she possessed. It was empty. With a sigh, Hermione left the trap and hoped to find something caught in it on her way back. Her stomach protested, but she was well versed in going hungry and she focused on her surroundings instead.

 

She needed a new pair of shoes. The boots on her feet were three sizes too big, and though she wore two pairs of socks and kept the boots tied as tightly as possible, they were a nightmare for her feet. She also had to exercise a great deal of care to keep from any clumsy stumbling.

 

She didn’t have very much in the way of possessions and what little there was didn’t technically belong to her, but it had been ages since she had felt guilty about stealing anything. She knew that she would never begrudge someone who stole from her for the same reasons and her conscience had to make do with that.

 

The village was approximately two miles north and it took Hermione almost two hours to travel the distance. She had to walk slower the closer she got to the houses along the outskirts. All of the houses looked to have been built at least a hundred years ago. Hermione hunkered down in the forest line and waited, biting her lip. It was quiet. Time passed slowly as she eyed this corner of the small village, and by noon, the sun was high overhead. Except for a few birds, she hadn’t seen any movement.

 

She had broken into a house at night on her first raid and that was not an experience she ever wanted to repeat. Her dislike for the dark aside, anxiety that she was going to wake up the sleeping occupants had made her physically ill. The more that she thought about it, though, she knew that the middle of the day was actually the safest, because that was when most people were not home. She always watched for a long time beforehand, just in case, but so far this time of day had worked well for her.

 

Hermione held her breath as she slowly stood up, bending around the tree, still taking inventory of the scene before her. The closest house was completely dark and there were no sounds from it or the two smaller cottages nearby.

 

She inched forward, all of her senses firing off, and her breath hitched as she made her way towards the short fence. Her heart pounding, she slowly crept towards the rust-spotted white gate and shivered as she pushed the metal entry open and crossed through into the small yard. With a loud click, the gate locked back into place and Hermione froze but relaxed her shoulders determinedly a few seconds later when nothing else happened. She forced herself to walk at a normal pace up to the front door. The door was locked, which was to be expected, but a few twists with a few fashioned bits of wire later, a click, and she was in. Bless you, Fred and George, she thought. They would be highly amused that their attention to detail for anything mischievous had aided her in committing burglary for the past year and a half.

 

Hermione’s pulse was jumping in her throat and her hands started shaking. Anxiety from the closed space made her a little light-headed. She quietly shut the door behind her, locking it from the inside, and inhaled and exhaled a few times, in through her nose and out through her mouth, until her symptoms began to recede. Her stomach was starting to cramp and she tiptoed down the front hall in search of the kitchen. If she had to leave in a hurry, she might escape with a bit of food.

 

The kitchen was just at the end of the hall, through an open archway, and she walked in, her steps hesitant and the muscles in her legs poised to flee. Forcing her hands to steady, she glanced around at the open shelving and began looking for anything small but substantial. A box of protein bars caught her eye and she took out four, putting three in the bottom of her purse and unwrapping the other. She ate it in two bites. She was careful to put the wrapper in her pants’ pocket. Underneath the sink Hermione found an old but still serviceable black duffel bag. Her hands shook as she smoothed it out on the counter and forced the bag to unzip, pulling hard for several moments before it gave.

 

She had an old Swiss Army knife in her purse; if she could fill the duffel up with as many cans as she could carry, she wouldn’t have to worry about being hungry for quite some time. The bag could make all of the difference for her this winter. She did try to be as unobtrusive as possible and just take a few things here and there that wouldn’t be missed so much, but with winter closing in, the risk’s pros outweighed the cons. Once the bag was heavy with non-perishables from random places on the shelves, she set the open duffel on the counter and peeked into the refrigerator. She sometimes looked for a bit of something fresh, but what immediately caught her eye was a fizzy drink. A four-pack of glass Coca-Cola bottles. Hermione groaned and touched one and then drew her hand back, hesitating. Then, biting her lip, she finally selected one and slipped it into her purse, saving it for later. Growing up, her parents very rarely let her drink soda and she had always selected Coca-Cola on those few occasions when she was allowed one, usually when they were eating out with friends. Hermione pushed the memories away and focused instead on the bowl of heaven right before her eyes. Taped to the top of what looked like home-made banana pudding was a handwritten note in shaky script: ****Thank you for fixing my roof. It’s so nice to not trip over pans of water. Maxine.****

 

Hermione pulled the whipped cream-topped pudding out carefully and set it on the counter, then looked in the cabinets for a small, cheap Tupperware that no one would miss. She found one in the third cabinet that she tried and opened drawers until she found a large spoon. Her stomach felt like it was going to jump out of her body and land in the cold pudding bliss. She even smiled a bit as she filled the small bowl up, careful to leave the white fluffy topping as smoothed out as possible after she was finished. She washed off the spoon and replaced it and put the bowl back into the refrigerator.

 

She had already spent too much time in the kitchen.

 

Hermione picked up the duffel bag and slipped it over one shoulder as she navigated through other parts of the house, looking for a bedroom. The first door she tried was a linen closet, mostly empty with a few sets of sheets and pillowcases. The second door, however, proved to be what she was looking for and Hermione stepped carefully into the very dim room. Heavy curtains covered the windows and though light was scarce, it would do. No one could see her from outside and that was good. She didn’t dare turn on a light, though; she stood in the dark for a minute until her eyes adjusted.

 

The bed looked so warm and inviting, Hermione dallied for a few seconds, staring at it. With a sad shake of her head, she turned and stepped carefully across the room. First, she pulled apart the sliding closet doors—and after taking in the fact that this was a male’s bedroom only, she stifled a sigh and started looking for something that would work. She had been in the house for ten minutes already and it felt much too long.

 

Though the clothes were for a man, they weren’t but a few sizes too big for her and she knew that with the belt she pulled off of a pile on a hanger that she could certainly make them work. Better for them to be too big than too small. There were several pairs of sturdy denim jeans and even a few pairs of dark navy overalls. She absently wondered if the man was a farmer. Biting her lip, she selected a sturdy pair of jeans folded in the back of the closet and a crisp pair of overalls. There was a pair of insulated coveralls. She hesitated over them for a few seconds, but passed them up. There was only the one pair and if they went missing, he would be sure to notice. It was bad enough that she had already taken so much. There were several pairs of boots lining the closet floor, from cowboy boots to hiking boots to winter boots. They were too big, but one size smaller than the pair she was currently wearing.

 

Deliberating quickly, Hermione chose one of the pairs of hiking boots near the back of the closet and tied the shoestrings together and slung them around her neck so that they would hang securely, should she have to make a run for it. They were heavy and uncomfortable, but it was a reassuring weight. She hastily selected two brown wool sweaters and one of the two raincoats in the back, the dark blue one, and one over-large t-shirt with bleach stains. It made her nervous to take the raincoat, but since they had been jammed in the back of the closet, she decided to go ahead. It would make a huge difference for her. After she stuffed everything into the duffel bag, it was full and she was starting to feel exhausted. She set the bag on the floor for a minute and closed the closet doors and hurried over to the bedside dresser. If she could get some socks and underwear, she could fit them into her purse and leave.

 

There were several pairs of socks in the top drawer and she made quick work of grabbing three thick wool pairs from the back and then checked the second drawer and exhaled slowly, relieved to have found something that would work. There were several pairs of boxers, and she chose a few that looked fairly new and tried not to think about it too much. Finished, she quickly patted everything down, making sure it looked like it had before. With her heart starting to thrum in her chest now that she was all done, she pivoted and grabbed the duffel bag on the floor. She slung the bag’s strap across her chest, trying not to grunt at the weight, and headed back the way she had come. Her nerves were telling her to hurry, hurry, hurry.

 

She was about to unlock the front door when she noticed a newspaper wrapped in plastic in the corner. It must have slid back when she opened the door after someone had delivered it through the mail slot. With little grace, she bent down awkwardly, her body pulled by the duffel bag and boots still around her neck. Honestly, she almost toppled right over. She gripped the plastic and stuffed it into a deep mesh side pocket of the duffel bag and then carefully unlocked and opened the door. The door was heavy, solid wood, but it moved quietly, without any squeaking, and she was thankful for that.

 

She locked the door from the inside again really quick and then pulled it closed, peering out into the yard and front walk. It was still quiet; she couldn’t hear or see anything abnormal. Trying to act as casually as possible, she walked as fast as she dared down his footpath towards the gate. Looking around, there was no one about. Hermione unhitched the gate and clicked it back into place behind her and then walked, almost stumbling, towards the woods, her heart pounding a mile a minute. After she reached the canopy of the trees, she picked up her pace and tried to stop trembling. The duffel bag, heavy with food, bumped against her side as she walked, reminding her over and over that, for a while, at least, she wouldn’t go hungry. She grinned and picked up her pace.

 

Even though Hermione wanted to collapse, she resolutely put one foot in front of the other until she made it back to the shelter of the cave she had slept in the night before. There was still plenty of daylight left. Hermione set the bag down at the foot of the cave and took off the boots slung around her aching neck. She rubbed her neckline for a minute before she bent down and settled on her knees to go back through and sort all of her supplies. She set everything in neat piles in front of her and counted all of her cans, quickly estimating how long they could possibly last. Fifteen cans. If she had one every three or four days, feeding off of anything she could find in the woods in the meantime, she could wait about two months before she had to raid again.


	4. Chapter 3: Bad News

ALLERFORD, SOMERSET, ENGLAND

__Later same day_ _

 

Hermione was dying to go through the newspaper right away—she hadn’t heard any news in so long. She decided to eat first, then freshen up and change, and then she would sit and relax with the paper, eat a bit of pudding with the fizzy drink, then have an early night so that she could leave at first light. She might even read a few chapters, if she felt up to it.

 

She did occasionally come across a bookcase when she was raiding a house, but she had only stolen one book. Its title had caught her eye last January as she crept through a small cottage in the northern bit of England. Growing up, her mum had read many children’s classics to her when she was very young and then she had started reading her favourites herself when she was six, before she discovered the world of non-fiction and knowledge that she had fallen in love with. She had still loved classics while she dived into the world of non-fiction, though, and had continued to read through them all. The book she had not been able to resist had always been one of her favourite children’s classics: __A Little Princess__. She hadn’t even given it a thought, had just grabbed it on her way out the door.

 

If she had thought about it at the time, she would have realized what a dangerous book it was for her to read.

 

Each page had hurt, the pain acute, but she hadn’t been able to stop. She had cried throughout the entire novel, many times too hard to be able to see, and she had fallen asleep with it in her hands that first night, emotionally spent.

 

She had read it sixteen times since then, and it still hurt, but she could tell that Sara Crewe, while fictional, was helping her to get through each day. She couldn’t romanticize her situation; she had been through too much for anything like that. But, as time went on, she found that she did possess strength. And, while she was no heroine and wasn’t at all sure what she would do now that her odyssey to Ottery St. Catchpole had proved fruitless, she wasn’t going to give up.

 

Hermione was almost content an hour later as she opened the Tupperware bowl and twisted open the glass bottle of Coca-Cola. She took a sip－and cringed. She couldn’t remember anything tasting so strong, so hard on her throat. She kept sipping, though, as she pulled the newspaper out of its plastic and spread it out before her. She was poised to take a small bite of the banana pudding when she froze, shocked by the huge photo on the front page.

 

Mr. Weasley.

 

And he looked...he looked dead. Laid out on some kind of platform, ash-grey and still, the only animation on the page came from the flashes of various wizarding cameras going off.

 

The pudding and the coke ended up on the ground and Hermione unfolded the paper with shaking hands, desperately trying to get to the article. When it was open before her, she raced through the words.

 

****HELLEBORE TERRORIST RING LEADER EXECUTED AT DAWN** **

****

****One family of known terrorists is no longer a thorn in the World Order’s side. The last member, the elusive patriarch, Arthur Weasley, was apprehended two weeks ago and has finally been brought to justice. After extensive questioning, Mr. Weasley was executed for his crimes against peace, including but not limited to: murder, attempted murder, terrorism, insurrection, seditious conspiracy, treason, and failure to register. At this time, no more vital information about the terrorist ring has been brought to light. For more information about the hearing, see page 5A. For more information about the capture and reward for any member of the terrorist ring, Hellebore, see page 7A. For a list of what to do to protect yourself if a terrorist threatens you, see page 7B.** **

 

The paper shook badly in her left hand and Hermione stared down at his dear face in grief and horror. The implications from the article were just as sickening. ALL of the Weasleys gone? Every single one of them?

 

Hermione gently set the paper down on the ground, placing the bowl of pudding on top to keep the light pages from flying away. She stood up, clutched her stomach, and swayed to the side as dizziness threatened. Gasping for breath, she took a few steps, and then a few more, and then she was running.

 

A minute later, Hermione grasped a large English oak, dry-heaving and expelling her dinner. When she caught her breath, she stumbled away from the tree a few steps and then sank down to the ground in a riot of underbrush.

 

Hermione leaned her forehead down against the leaf-strewn soil, and cried.

 

She couldn’t believe that they were gone. Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, the twins, Charlie, Bill, and Percy. All of them? It was bad enough that Ron was gone. No, she couldn’t accept it. It couldn’t possibly be.

 

She curled up into a ball and eventually the only sound she made was hiccups as slow, hot tears burned down her cheeks.

 

The sky grew dimmer as Hermione laid there. Infrequent bird calls and shuffles through nearby leaves broke up the silence every now and then. The temperature was dropping, but Hermione barely noticed. Her hand gradually made its way to cover her eyes. Her tears eventually dried up, but she spared no time worrying about dehydration. She shook slightly with dry, shuddering grief, and for the first time in a long time, she let herself really remember how life used to be. The Hogwarts Express, Hogwarts itself, becoming friends with Harry and Ron, her first visit to The Burrow, getting to know Ginny, the equal amounts of affection and exasperation she felt for Mrs. Weasley and, to a larger extent, the twins, how adorable and kind Mr. Weasley was....

 

It hurt. The pain was excruciating. She curled up tighter, hugging her arm tightly to her chest and closed her eyes, remembering, until she finally fell asleep.

 

When she awoke, several hours later, she felt sick all over. Evening light filtering through the branches hurt her eyes in every possible way. With an aching head in one hand, her injured hand clasped between her knees, Hermione dry-heaved and then fell on her back as she struggled against the pain.

 

How many of her dear friends, exactly, had been tortured and killed? Were they all gone now? And what had they endured? Ginny, oh Merlin. A Weasley and the girl that Harry had loved—worry about what Ginny would have been forced to withstand haunted her for the millionth time. What would they have done to her? Hermione shivered uncontrollably and forced the thoughts away.

 

She drew breaths in through her nose sharply, trying to keep the dry-heaving at bay. She opened her eyes and grimaced at the sun, then shielded her eyes with one hand. After a few minutes, Hermione weakly reached for her purse. She felt around blindly until she found the water bottle and slowly, with a shaking and feeble hand, brought it to her lips. She took tiny sips, drinking about half of it in an hour between small bites of one of the protein bars. Thankfully, the migraine and shakiness abated.

 

Hermione had to hold onto the tree behind her to stand up and her knees were still knocking when she looked around. She hadn’t made it very far and within a few minutes she reached the large rock outcropping that hid the cave from immediate sight. Relief flooded her and she hurried around to where the cave was, reaching for the bowl of pudding and the newspaper still lying on the ground.

 

Her thrumming heart almost jumped out of her throat when someone nearby cleared their throat. Turning slowly, as if in slow motion, Hermione’s eyes widened when she came up short to the long barrel of a rifle.

 

A low baritone groused out at her, harsh but almost with good humor. “Welll, nice ter meet yer dare, girlie. Yer wan av dem terrorists they’re alwus complainin’ aboyt?”

 

Hermione brought one shaky hand up to her forehead, closing her eyes for a second, and held the other one out in front of her in surrender. “Please,” she croaked, and then tried to clear her throat. “I’m—” She cleared her throat again, her nerves not helping the rasping. “I’m not a threat,” she finally managed.

 

The old man grunted and did not lower the gun. He stated the obvious. “Yer didnae answer me quesshun dare, lassie.”

 

Hermione hesitated and bit her lip. Her mind ran through a series of lies that she could use, but she wasn’t a liar. She finally asked, “May I—do you mind,” she coughed and cringed, then pointed at the purse at her waist. “Water?”

 

His huge, fuzzy caterpillar-like eyebrows arched over his narrowed sea green eyes for a second. Hermione had never seen eyes like his before. He shifted the rifle to one hand and rested it on his thigh, still pointing it at her, and reached into his own shoulder bag and pulled out a bottle of water. He tossed it to her and shifted his rifle back into a more commanding grip.

 

Hermione tried to catch the bottle, but it slipped through her fingers. She bent over slowly and picked it up, telling herself not to make any sudden moves. She guzzled down the first half of the bottle and noticed that his eyes seemed to soften, despite his stance. “Thank you, I—I appreciate it more than you know. I...” she faltered and tried for a simple summary of the truth. “I’m not a...terrorist－but I have been in trouble.” Her voice cracked on the last word and her cinnamon brown eyes welled with tears. Aghast, she blinked rapidly and squared her shoulders.

 

“Wallll, shoot.” The old man lowered the gun and slung it over his shoulder by its nylon strap. “Thought Oi caugh’ meself a spunky rebel.”

 

A startled, short laugh escaped Hermione and she stared up at him.

 

* * *

 

****A/N: Due to showing the pronunciation of Christie’s accent, sometimes words are used where the meaning doesn’t necessarily fit, for phonetic purposes. A few examples that come to mind from future chapters is ‘nigh’ instead of ‘now’ and Oi instead of I. Don’t worry, I haven’t mixed up the meanings in my head. Just go with it. Thank you! :)** **


	5. Chapter 4: Christie Barclay

 

ALLERFORD, SOMERSET, ENGLAND

__Continued_ _

 

“Name’s Christie, Christie Barclay.” He stuck out one weathered but large hand and Hermione hesitantly shook it with her own, wishing fervently that she wasn’t so dirty. Even though she had scrubbed in the stream recently, she felt like she was filthy from the top of her bushy head to the tips of her booted toes.

 

She bit her tongue and squared her shoulders harder. She had a strong gut feeling that Christie could be trusted. The earnest honesty in his eyes reminded her an awful lot of Harry when he was young. “Her-Hermione Granger.”

 

Christie’s eyebrows rose even higher at that and he tilted his olive-green fisherman’s hat back, tipping it up at a rakish angle. He absently pulled on his medium-length grey beard and stared at her. “Well. Well. Shakers,* lassie. Yer ‘ave been in a pickle.”

 

Hermione bit her bottom lip and nodded.

 

Without further ado, and causing Hermione to squeak in fright despite her intuition about Christie, he strode over to another large, knee-high boulder nearby and sat down abruptly.

 

His wide mouth spread in a mischievous grin. “Relax yer geggie (Scottish slang: ‘mouth’), lass, Ah’m not aboyt ter eat ye.”

 

Hermione turned her head, hiding a small smile. She sat down in front of the other large boulder nearby and leaned back against the rock, stretching her legs in front of her comfortably. His accent was Irish through and through, but some of the words he used made her wonder. She asked, “Have you spent much time in Scotland, sir?”

 

“Sir?” Christie slapped his knee and chuckled good-naturedly. “Nae, nae. Jist call me Christie. Full name’s Christopher, but that’s too fanciful-like for de likes av me. Oi’m from near al’ o’er, guess ye cud say. Oi wus born in Oirlan’ (Ireland), spent me youth dare. Joined de Naval Service underage; ah, aboyt sixteen Oi was.” His accent seemed to get thicker the longer he talked, Hermione mused. Christie continued, “Ah’ve seen ev’ry shore from ‘ere ter...wellll, aboyt ter de ‘artica (Antartica).”

 

Curiosity washed over Hermione and it was such a forgotten feeling that for several seconds, her mind reeled. She listened to Christie talk, occasionally interjecting quiet questions and comments.

 

Christie pulled out three sandwiches from his shoulder bag and handed her two of them, then he ate a few huge bites of the other here and there while he talked. Hermione chewed slowly, savouring the tenderness and richness of the simple but delicious corned beef on somewhat stale bread, and as her stomach strained and stretched and felt full for the first time in years, she didn’t notice the slow, steady stream of tears running down her face.

 

“De ports av Sout’ Africa, nigh, tha’s somethin’ ter write ‘um (home) aboyt. De people an’ de goods they wus sellin’ annn’ a’ cartin’....”

 

Hermione leaned her head back against the rock as she listened, her eyes growing heavier and heavier with each passing second. The grief was still there, but she felt like she was sitting in a small pool of light surrounded by the blackest darkness. The glow was warm, and it was sufficient. Her breathing deepened and she drifted off. She lay with the last half of her second sandwich cradled protectively in her two hands.

 

“Wallll, Oi bored ‘er plain ter sleep.” Christie chuckled and stood up and stretched. His cheery sea green eyes settled on Hermione’s weary face for several seconds and then he shook his head, the cheerfulness fading from his eyes. He walked quietly to the trees nearby and set about searching for decent firewood. It was going to be dark soon and the chill in the air was becoming more pronounced. He made quick work of gathering up a huge armful of medium-sized sticks.

 

The sharp caw of a nearby crow brought Christie’s eyes up and he looked around until he found three in a tree about a hundred feet away. Nasty buggers, crows. He despised them. Out of all of God’s feathered creatures, they were the only ones he didn’t like. He itched to set the wood down and pull his rifle up and give them a parting shot, but with a grumble, he let them be. “Tis yisser jammy (undeserved luck) day, biddies, tha’s all. Ye stay away fro’ me garden, ye ‘ear meh, ye feather-brain’d menaces?”

 

The crows began cawing at each other—or at him. Likely laughing at him. Christie turned his back on them and headed back to the cave, muttering under his breath.

 

The poor wee lass was still sleeping. Christie entered the mouth of the cave and settled the sticks in a careful pile and then went back outside to gather up a bit of dry grass to help get the fire going sooner. There was plenty of undergrowth nearby, and in less than a minute, he was back in the cave, prepping the makeshift fire pit. He rummaged in his shoulder bag until he found his lighter and one of his notepads, and quickly flipped through the bird-watching journal, ripping out a blank page at the end. Twisting the page, he set the end on fire, lowered it to the dry grass, and sat back with satisfaction as the flame crinkled through the dry grass and quickly turned into a small but hearty blaze.

 

With an unnoticed creak in his bones, Christie leapt to his feet effortlessly and headed back to the lass. She had turned and was huddled up against the rock, her head lying over on her arm, which was reaching over the top of the boulder. It was enough to make his neck crick. Hesitating for a second, for he didn’t want to scare the poor girl out of her wits, he finally cleared his throat once, and then a second time, louder.

 

Nothing.

 

“Girlie? Ye can go on in and lay down nigh.” Several seconds passed and the lass made no indication that she heard him. With a shrug, Christie approached her still form and leaned over and carefully situated her in his arms so that he could pick her up. He stood straight up quickly with some surprise. __Why, she__ _ _doesn’t__ _ _weigh more than a scrawny tomcat!__

 

Christie back-pedalled to the cave and quickly settled her at the back wall, near the fire. He shuffled through his shoulder bag again and pulled out an old flannel shirt. Lifting her head gently, he slipped the folded shirt under her cheek, the closest thing to a pillow he could manage at the moment. He retreated to the mouth of the cave and cleared away several small pebbles before easing down on the ground and lying on his back. He turned up the collar of his coat, positioned one arm behind his head and stared up at the edge of the roof of the cave and the darkening sky. The soft snoring a short distance away brought a gentle smile to his weathered face.

 

* * *

 

Dawn found Christie sitting on the large rock out front, skinning a rabbit and whistling cheerfully. He didn’t raise his eyes from his handiwork as a bemused Hermione slowly stumbled out of the cave, stretching languorously and rolling her shoulders. She stepped towards him. “Thank you,” Hermione whispered, handing his flannel shirt/pillow back.

 

Christie grunted in acknowledgement and went back to whistling. Hermione couldn’t help the small smile that lit up her face and she sat down on the other side of the rock. She noted another rabbit at his feet and offered to skin it for him.

 

“Tanks, lassie, but tha’s alrigh’. Oi don’ mind skinnin’ it ‘fore Oi head back ter me castle.”

 

Hermione nodded, a wave of sadness washing over her. She dusted off her hands and was about to get up to get some water when Christie spoke again.

 

“Oi got a proposishun for ye, lass. If’n ye are ineristid.”

 

“Ineristid?” Hermione chuckled into her hand. “You sound like an old...an old—”

 

“An auld waaat, exactly, lassie?” Christie interjected sharply, his tone playful.

 

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek and shook her head. “A cowboy,” she admitted. “Don’t tell me. You spent a few years herding cattle?”

 

Christie stood up and set the skinned rabbit on the rock where he had been sitting. He hiked up his trousers self-importantly and spit on the ground nearby for good measure. “Yessiree, girlie. Ye’re gawkin’ atta two-year cowpokin’ veteran.” He crossed his arms affectedly, his eyes daring her to laugh again. “Aye. ’sides. Oi love me a gran’ L’Amour western.”

 

Hermione smiled.

 

Christie shuffled his feet. “Och, yer gonna listen o’ not?”

 

“Aye.”

 

Christie’s right eyebrow rose, and he grinned cheekily at her.

 

He was like a little leprechaun, Hermione mused, with his medium build and sprightly, cheeky manner. She forced back tears, thinking how much the twins would have liked him. Or would have been like him in the future, if only....

 

“Oi cud use some ‘elp raun de house. Dat is, walllll...Oi canny exactily cook. Sure am sick o’ sambos (sandwiches). Oi don’t much loike cleanin’ neither. In short, lassie, Ah’d—walll, Oi wud offer yer room an’ board. If’n yer willin’ ter work.”

 

Hermione’s eyes welled up and she looked down at her empty, chafed hands, trying to stifle the rise of emotion. Her head bobbed once in affirmation, her throat too swollen with the threat of oncoming tears to speak.

 

Christie cleared his throat. “Well.” He grunted and patted her roughly but kindly on the shoulder. “I’ll jist...I’ll git yer things together.” He retreated quietly to the inside of the cave to gather everything up, giving her a much-needed minute to herself.

 

* * *

 

A little over an hour later, Christie uttered a low, hearty chuckle, slapping his knee in the process. “Imagine me a sneakin’ into me own gaff (house)! Oi ‘ave got ter do dis more often!”

 

Hermione turned to stare at Christie in the light of the early morning sun. “What?” She was shaking like a leaf and she felt absurd, hiding behind the tree-line with Christie in tow, watching for any activity from the surrounding houses.

 

Christie had assured her that everyone was light-years older than he was and tended to sleep in, but then admitted that his neighbors were the ‘moochiest bunch av ‘igh-neck nosies’ he’d ever laid eyes on.

 

Hermione had almost lost her gall right then and there.

 

Christie started shaking with laughter, his shoulders just trembling with the chortles. His eyes were bonnie and bright as he peeked his bearded chin around the knotted tree, making sure once more that no one’s lights were on yet. “Nigh who’s de auld nosey?” he said to himself, laughing and shaking even harder.

 

Hermione’s spine straightened and she admonished him, feeling very annoyed and tender at the same time with the thought that dear old Christie would have got on very well with Harry and Ron and the twins at Hogwarts indeed. “Hush!” Her eyes were swelling with emotion and fear and she sounded harsher than she had intended, but Christie didn’t even act like he heard her. In fact, he was getting louder by the second. Hermione rubbed her eyes and asked sharply, “Do you want to be found out, is that it?”

 

Christie suddenly took off towards his gate, his rifle swinging on its strap against his back.

 

“Mr. Barclay!” Hermione hissed, then uttered a foul word. “Wait!”

 

Hermione followed him as quickly and quietly as she could, muttering under her breath with each frenzied step. When she reached his front door, he whisked it open and pulled her inside, laughing still.

 

Hermione stood in the darkened doorway, the door shut behind her, and started dusting herself off, at a loss for words. Finally, his chuckling started to give way and Hermione gave him her sternest look. “You’re mad!” she exclaimed in a harsh whisper.

 

Christie spun her around, dancing a quick-stepping jig and then released her, pleased at her wildly taken aback expression. “Innit a jolly spree? Why, Oi fale like me auld self agin! Oi sprightly firey-cracker Oi am!”

 

Hermione shook her head, but a small smile peeked out. “Oh dear. What have I gotten myself into?”

 

Christie grinned and then ambled down the darkened hallway. He turned around after a few steps and brought his fingers to his lips, silently admonishing her to be quiet. Hermione huffed and rolled her eyes, but followed him to the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

****A/N: I hope you love Christie as much as I do! In some ways, he reminds me of my dad and my brother.** ** **** ****Thank you for reading!** **


	6. Chapter 5: Clean

 

ALLERFORD, SOMERSET, ENGLAND

__Continued_ _

 

Christie set about making coffee and exclaimed over his shoulder that she should make herself at home again, emphasis on the __again__ , and find a bite to eat. He chortled to himself, then had a second thought and asked if Hermione would like tea instead.

 

“Thank you, but no, coffee sounds perfectly delightful, to be honest.” Hermione paused as she wondered what to make to eat. Such a prospect hadn’t been in front of her in so long. “How about a quick but traditional English fry-up? It wouldn’t take me long to put it together.”

 

“Nigh you’re talkin’!” Christie smiled and swept his arm forward towards the stove. “Hop ter it, lassie. Ah’ve got ‘einz beans, cured ham, and even a few eggs. In fac’, Oi do ‘appen ter ‘av a tomato or two. Is dat too much?” Suddenly he looked like he was asking for the moon, and Hermione smiled at him.

 

“Not at all.” Her stomach nearly fainted at the thought of ham.

 

Hermione hesitantly began moving around the kitchen. So much of it was awkward at first, but it wasn’t long before she had ham and eggs frying in cast iron skillets. She peeked in through the walk-in pantry after Christie showed her the swinging door that blended into the wall on the north side of the kitchen. The back room was rather large and she was thankful that she hadn’t discovered it before. If she had only taken from the dusty back shelves there, she would have never been in the situation she was in now. With a friend. It was a lot to wrap her mind around.

 

Most of the house was in working order and Christie was obviously not a slob, a fact Hermione was thankful for. But the shelves in the pantry were disorderly, dusty, and she knew that she could do some much-needed cleaning right away. There was a large deep freezer in the back corner, as well as a very old and rusty refrigerator that might have been the colour of tapioca ice cream at one time.

 

Hermione held open the refrigerator door with her hip as she looked through the wide variety of home-grown produce. She picked out a few white button mushrooms and then, shutting the door, selected a medium-sized ripe tomato from its perch on a shelf in front of a dusty diamond-pane window. She brought them out and into the kitchen, letting the swinging pantry door close softly behind her. Christie was at the table, drinking coffee and sifting through a small open book and notepad quietly.

 

Hermione hurried over to the skillets and flipped the ham and eggs. The cured ham would not take long to warm up, so Hermione added the mushrooms to the skillet with the ham and happily listened to the pop and sizzle. After the ham and mushrooms were finished and resting next to the fried eggs, Hermione cut the tomato in half and set the halves in the hot grease left from the fragrant ham.

 

She had learned more about cooking from Mrs. Weasley than her mum, who had been too busy with the dental office to serve a home-cooked meal very often. It was much different working in the kitchen the Muggle way than with magic, though.

 

She was mentally making a list of things that she would like to learn how to cook that she thought Christie would really like. Homemade chili, stews, and soups were at the top of the list. She imagined she’d get a toothy cowboy grin if she mentioned chili.

 

The process of frying everything up didn’t take long and soon Hermione was setting the table.

 

Her curiosity piqued when she saw that Christie was leafing through a book about local birds and making small notations in the margins as well as in his notebook. She began laying out a few pot-holders to go underneath a platter filled with what looked like a veritable feast to her.

 

Christie shut his book, laid his notebook carefully on top, and cleared his throat. He pulled his plate closer to him eagerly and gave her a warm smile and a mischievous wink. Closing his eyes as she reached for a piece of ham, Christie said clearly into the stunned silence, “Thank thee, Lord, for de bounty Ye ‘av set before us. Thank thee for de blessin’ av friendship. Please watch o’er us an’ keep us oyt av too much trouble.” He cleared his throat. “Amen.”

 

Hermione’s eyes were huge and Christie pretended not to notice the surprise as plain as the nose on her face as he grinned cheekily, filled up his plate, and tucked in.

 

* * *

 

Hermione swept the bathroom with her eyes and was a little unsure where to begin. Her gaze crashed to a halt when she saw her reflection clearly for the first time. Unconsciously, she moved forward until she was almost nose-to-nose with the full-length mirror and her eyes smarted at what the unforgiving glass revealed.

 

She wasn’t sure, honestly, if her own mother would have been able to recognize the old Hermione underneath the wild exterior. Her hair was worse than she had thought. It was all rat tails and tangles and dust. Dirt and broken leaves were interspersed everywhere. Christie was too kind, Hermione realized for the umpteenth time, in shock. How many people left on this earth would not have mentioned the state of her hair while she was cooking their breakfast? Her clothes were not so bad, since she hadn’t been wearing them very long, but they hung off of her more than she had ever realized. She was nothing more than skin and bones. She had scratches and scars all over her skin, skin that was deep brown and almost leathery in appearance. Her cheeks were red and chapped. Her eyes...they were much darker than before, the whites bloodshot and yellow-tinged, and she had prominent dark circles underneath them.

 

She took a few steadying deep breaths and began to rifle through the drawer for a pair of scissors. She had asked Christie if he had a sturdy pair and he had said that they should be in the top right drawer, perhaps towards the back. She found them and pulled the large black scissors out, the dull metal heavy in her hand. Wrenching her eyes tight, Hermione tried to stretch her hair out to cut, but most of it was so stiff, it wouldn’t move. She brought the scissors next to her scalp, wedged the scissors in, and began cutting awkwardly. It was slow going, but eventually, there was a pile of hair and dirt on the tiled floor.

 

There was a dust brush and hand-held dustbin hanging on a hook on the back of the bathroom door and Hermione used them to clean up the mess she had made. Afterwards, she avoided looking in the mirror and instead approached the shower and turned on the water, making sure it would be quite hot. She still trembled when she climbed into the shower, but she immediately groaned in relief and shock at the strong spray. Gratitude overwhelmed her and she had to prop herself up against the shower wall as the hot water rejuvenated her. She leaned her face down into her shaking hands and cried. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

 

Hermione felt like a brand-new person by the time she towelled off, clipped her nails, brushed her teeth for five minutes straight with a spare toothbrush, and dressed in a pair of pyjamas and thick socks.

 

Christie had been married for a short time, he’d told her, and he still had many of his dear Laura’s clothes in a chest in one of the spare bedrooms. He had given Hermione the room and told her to use everything, not to feel hesitant at all. ‘She’d ‘av wanted ye ter ‘av dem, sure enoof, an’ Oi’m dat glad nigh dat Oi never got rid av de lot,’ he’d said, pulling her towards the open chest and laying a few things out on the edge of the sides. He’d quickly left her to it and Hermione had run her fingers over the smooth dresses and slacks, overwhelmed. Everything was decidedly soft and feminine, old-fashioned, with edges of yellowed lace on some and small pearl buttons on the rest. Christie had insisted that she alter what she could to suit her, though Hermione wouldn’t feel right doing so.

 

She had found a pair of lavender pyjamas near the bottom of the chest. The top was long-sleeved and buttoned down the front and the material was thick and soft, a flannel fleece.

 

These were the pyjamas she now wore, and Hermione fingered the edge of a sleeve gently as she studied the mirror for the second time. Her very short hair was curling softly against her scalp. While it looked so wrong, it was a vast improvement, and she knew she would grow used to it in time. Biting her lip and smiling gently in the mirror, Hermione turned and unlocked the door and headed down the hall to her bedroom. Her bedroom. She tried not to laugh hysterically—it was almost too much to take in. What a turn her life had taken! She silently said thank you again. She left the light off as she went in, exhaustion wearing on her bones even though it was technically still morning and she had only woken up a few hours ago. She pulled back the layered quilts and coverlet one at a time and her hand sunk into the soft mattress on the old-fashioned twin-sized bed. Her breath hitched. She eased onto the bed and pulled the blankets up to her chin. Her whole body almost hurt from the relief it felt. She gently stretched, popping her toes and her kneecaps and her back, and then lay limp under the heavenly radiating warmth of the quilts. Silent tears spilled down her cheeks, but she was too tired to wipe them away. Her eyes closed of their own accord, heavy with drowsiness, and she drifted off.

 

****A/N: Thank goodness I am done torturing Hermione. I know. Bad author! Shame! Maybe I don’t deserve a review for being so cruel, but I would love one anyway. I guess I am greedy as well as cruel. Ah, well.** ** **** ****Thank you for reading!! And, thank you, Davros, for all of your help!!** ** ****And, you guys, y** ** ****ou’ve been introduced to one OC so far, but Christie is far from the only original character. The family in this** ** ****next** ** ****chapter is integral to the overall story and I hope you enjoy the new OC offerings!** **


	7. Chapter 6: Sam, Beth, and Little Tootie

 

__Halfway across the world, another girl fights for survival._ _

 

THE EASTERN SEABOARD, UNITED STATES

__September, 2001, approx. two years after The Fall_ _

 

Rule number one: never go anywhere alone after dark.

 

It amazed Sam there were still idiots who did just that. She didn’t have the time or inclination to stop and feel sorry for the kid slumped over near the edge of the alley, throat cut and eyes blank. Jackals, the worst cob (gang) in Boston, had gotten him. Sick kernels spray painted an X over their victims’ faces. Like death was some kind of joke.

 

The boy was completely stripped, his shoes, if he’d been cocky enough to have a pair, ancient history with the rest of his clothes.

 

Sam turned away from the body dispassionately, tucking her chin-length black hair behind her ears, and was grateful Beth and Tootie had stayed at The Hole. Despite everything, Beth was still horrified by each senseless killing. But Beth was only fifteen (or so—it was hard to keep track of things as useless as birthdays after the end of the world) and had the gentlest spirit of anyone Sam had ever known.

 

Sam had killed before—and would have to again, to stay alive. She hated it, but she had little choice. If something happened to her, Beth and Toot wouldn’t last more than a few days. She could never let that happen.

 

She detested the Jackals. There were a few cobs that weren’t as malicious, and Sam had a few allies on the streets, but for the most part, she and her two charges stayed on their own. Beth was too pretty, Toot too young, and Sam didn’t trust even her two allies more than she could throw them.

 

Well, Ricky she trusted a bit, but he was so skinny, she could throw him like a discus and there would be nothing he could do about it. She grinned and looked casually around the corner and down the street.

 

Besides the corpse, there was no one in sight—which was exactly why Sam always went diving at the first light of dawn. Cobs stayed up late, partying on the streets, and slept in late. Stupid idiots didn’t even know they were doing her a favour.

 

Strolling back into the alley, Sam approached a large dumpster, a large metal bin full of all sorts of garbage, and braced herself on the edges, pulling herself up and over. She no longer noticed the smell. Ignoring the decomposing scraps, Sam sat on her knees and sorted through the trash. She had a slouchy, sling-like crossover bag that Beth had made for Toot when he was a baby, and she used it to collect and carry anything she found that would be worth trading.

 

It was slow work and she didn’t find a lot this morning. Just a lighter that still worked, a belt, a few batteries in questionable condition, most likely dead, a box with a few matches, and a few pens. Not a great haul, but better than nothing.

 

Sam looked out at the alley and listened for a minute before she hopped over the edge of the bin and back onto the ground, landing softly on her feet. She’d just have to hope that Ammon was in a good mood this morning.

 

Ammon, the “proprietor” of The Hive, an opportunist to give any politician a run for their money, wasn’t an official member of any one gang, but he straddled the proverbial fence, providing everyone with neutral territory to trade for goods and food.

 

He had been an exchange student from Egypt at the time of the Fall, was closing in on seven feet, boxed all throughout high school, and could do as he pleased. Girls tripped over themselves to find favour in his eyes, seeing something in his cocoa skin and golden eyes that Sam couldn’t even begin to fathom. She only showed him contempt, with a grudging respect; he was brilliant, however little she wanted to admit it.

 

As for Ammon, he liked her forthrightness, even fantasized about her sometimes, but he wasn’t stupid enough to say so. There was no end to the number of blades Sam carried, and the girl had a temper. That was another reason he liked her so much. But, he wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t exactly fancy sharp objects flying at his face.

 

Still, he liked to make her turn red.

 

Ammon looked up from behind his computer and grinned as his favourite dark-haired shrew stepped through the door with her permanent scowl in place. Closing the game of solitaire, he unfolded himself from his chair and stretched, eyeing Sam with a maddening light in his eyes.

 

Her scowl deepened.

 

Ammon laughed, the sound a shock-wave in the otherwise quiet room. “Good morning, sunshine, I do hope you had a satisfactory sleep,” he greeted, each syllable spoken clearly and in quick succession. His light-brown eyes crinkled in the corners as he rose one eyebrow to her succinct silence. “Very well, Sam, what brings you to the bees’ knees?”

 

Sam made a show of rolling her eyes. “Ammon, you’re seriously lame, I hope you know that. I have no idea why anyone would be afraid of you.”

 

He laughed. “I know I’m not nearly as terrifying as you are, O Dark One, but then again, I doubt anyone is. Damn, I hope not. What have you got for me today?” he asked, finally getting down to business.

 

Sam sighed softly and began unloading her finds on the bar. He barely looked at the goods before he lifted the key around his neck, entering the locked room. He returned with a can of Progresso stew and a bite-size Hershey’s Mr. Goodbar.

 

Sam’s eyebrows rose. “Chocolate? Again?”

 

“Something to sweeten you up,” he answered with a wink.

 

Sam narrowed her eyes at him and tried not to smile. “You’re going to spoil him.”

 

Ammon snorted, leaning towards her, his arms resting on the counter. “Small chance of that. How is the kid?”

 

“Rowdy. I guess Beth would want me to thank you,” she added, slipping the two items into the purse at her waist.

 

“Please tell her she’s most welcome.”

 

“Stop acting the gentleman, Ammon, your duplicity is making me queasy.”

 

He gave her a wolfish grin and Sam huffed.

 

Glancing down at his watch, Ammon noticed that it was nearing eight o’clock. “You better get out of here, Sam.”

 

She nodded and turned to leave, lifting her hand in a dismissive but playful farewell.

 

It was a short walk back to The Hole, and after surveying the empty street around the small auto garage, Sam lifted the key from around her neck and unlocked the metal door. After their parents were murdered in The Fall, the event that killed most if not all of the adults in several major cities, this was the safest place that Sam could find for her and Beth. The garage doors in the front of the building were operated from the inside, and the only regular door was thick, metal, and nigh indestructible. The first thing Sam had done after The Fall was steal the set of keys from their uncle’s house, who, in all fairness, wasn’t going to need the keys or his business any longer. A few possessions they couldn’t live without, all of the non-perishables they could carry in two backpacks, and they had left their home behind.

 

Thankful for her uncle’s power tools, Sam had immediately boarded up the two large windows with anything she could find that would work. She had broken apart an old card table, dissembled some cabinets, and even a few road signs were screwed in to cover the windows. When the electricity failed, it was blindingly dark, hence the nickname.

 

After the first blackout, Sam had dived for a week before she amassed enough goods for Ammon to trade her an oil lamp. He was especially difficult if you had something in particular in mind. From then on, when she managed a really good haul, she would save her best finds and then trade one for oil later, when the lamp was running low. She didn’t like the impenetrable dark.

 

Sam knocked hard twice and then paused and knocked once more. Letting herself in, she locked the door behind her and replaced the roped key around her neck as two tiny arms attacked her legs, squeezing with joy, and a curly mop of a head grinned up at her.

 

“Thsammy! You mithed it, you mithed it!” Tootie cried, his curls bouncing in his eyes.

 

Sam knelt down, her shoulders relaxing as her frown melted into a genuine-if-awkward-looking smile. “Yeah? What’d I miss, shorty?”

 

“I thspelled my name,” he declared proudly, puffing out his little chest.

 

Sam looked up at Beth, who was seated on a wheeled creeper, a warm smile on her face. She nodded, and Sam scooped Tootie up into her arms. “No way, I don’t believe you!”

 

He scowled at her, his two-year-old face comically reminiscent of her own. “T-double O-T-I…T-I—E!”

 

Sam laughed and bounced him on her hip. “Oh, you proved me wrong! Good job! Here, shorty,” she dug in the purse and pulled out the small chocolate bar, “a gift from Ammon, just for you.”

 

Toot smiled down at the small yellow-wrapped candy. “Choc-o-lot?” he asked, causing Sam to laugh out loud.

 

“Yes, ah, choc-o-lot. High five, monkey.”

 

He gave her an abrupt high five and then wiggled down, heading towards his blocks (bits of wood Sam had scavenged from an abandoned sawmill nearby).

 

“What do you say?” Beth cajoled.

 

“Thanths for nothing,” Tootie chirruped happily, quoting Sam, who sometimes grumbled about Ammon under her breath. Well, okay, she grumbled about him on a regular basis on her good days.

 

Sam burst out laughing.

 

“I’m glad you’re back, Sam,” Beth said with a gentle smile, sounding tired, which was odd for her.

 

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked sharply.

 

“Noth-nothing,” Beth quickly asserted, not quite meeting her sister’s eyes.

 

Sam crossed the room in a few strides. “What’s the matter, Beth?” she asked, eyeing her sister closely.

 

Beth’s pale face was flushed, and she chewed her bottom lip, then turned to watch Tootie. Finally, she quietly admitted, “Nothing’s very wrong, I promise. It’s just...I feel a bit off. I’ve got a fever and I’ve had this headache that won’t go away,” Beth grabbed Sam’s hand before she started pacing in panic, “I’m fine. I’m just so afraid that it could be contagious. I don’t want you or Tootie to get sick. Especially Toot. He’s still so little,” she whispered.

 

Sam rocked on her heels for a minute, fresh worry settling on her shoulders with cruel efficiency.


	8. Chapter 7: The Muggle Resistance

 

ALLERFORD, SOMERSET, ENGLAND

__Continued from before_ _

 

Hermione was so warm. She woke slowly, stretching with great care. She often suffered from leg cramps. Malnutrition played a big part and her body had been pushed to its limits. If she ever felt a cramp coming on, she would try to relax her body and not move, in hopes that the spasms might be dissuaded. But, it was hard for her body to relax when it was filling with dread at the same time.

 

Leg cramps were a cruel shadow of the pain she had endured during the Cruciatus Curse, and always, always, left her wilted and sore for several days. These days were hell, coupled with fierce memories she’d really much rather leave repressed.

 

But, she stretched a bit and a bit more until Hermione realized, she actually did feel relaxed. She opened her eyes slowly and as the bedroom around her came into focus, she squeaked and promptly fell into the floor. She was a mess, tangled in the sheets and heavy quilts, and stared around in wide-eyed fear, her heart protesting painfully in her chest.

 

As the familiarity of the bedroom and memories of the past few days sunk back in, Hermione leaned back against the bed frame, her hand over her chest, trying to slow her breathing. When she had finally calmed down enough, she stood up, untangling herself from the many blankets. She quickly set about remaking the bed.

 

Sunlight was trying to peek through the edges of the heavy curtains. She gathered up a faded pair of high-waisted khaki pants and the simplest blouse she could find and headed towards the bathroom. Her limbs were a little lethargic and weak, but otherwise, she felt wonderful.

 

When she ambled into the kitchen a few minutes later, she found Christie on a stool at the peninsula bar. He was munching on toast, his feet crossed at his ankles on the stool next to him, while he perused a laptop perched on the edge of the counter-top.

 

“Walll, ‘eeloo dere, lassie. Oi aboyt gave yer up for dead, Oi did. ‘oy might ye be feelin’?”

 

Hermione rubbed the back of her neck and stretched her arms once more. She smiled at him. “Great. I feel wonderful. How long was I out?”

 

Christie chuckled. “Aye. Hmm, welll nigh, aboyt three days nigh. If’n yer don’t mind me sayin’ so, ye needed it.”

 

Hermione stared out the window, aghast. “Three days?”

 

“Aye.”

 

“How on earth—”

 

Christie waved his hand dismissively in the air before him and turned the computer screen towards her where she could see what he was reading. “Never mind that, ye needed i’, that’s for sure an’ certain. Nigh, how’d yer loike t’ see what’s really goin’ on?”

 

Hermione sat down on the stool next to him after he lowered his feet and her eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Whatever do you mean, Christie?”

 

Christie leaned forward and grinned, his eyes intense. “I’m talkin’ aboyt a wee tin’ called...t’ Muggle Resistance.”

 

Hermione’s brain started whirring. The Muggle Resistance. The words were like a jolt of espresso to her bloodstream. She sat up straight and began scrolling through the website quickly while Christie started chuckling again.

 

Christie grinned. “They’re all in an uproar, yer nu (you know). Yer shud see the ‘mericans. Thar’s a ‘otheaded lot, naw mistake. Lots av people raun the warrld don’t ‘av enoof sense ter stand down. Mind ye, Oi’m wan av ‘em. Thar’s plenty that jist fall in line; mos’ people raun ‘ere are loike that－but thar’s enoof that are stubborn. Aye. Thar’s enoof.”

 

Hermione listened closely and continued scrolling through the forum, clicking on a few threads here and there. Thread titles like EMERGENCY ONLY: HELP NEEDED; JUSTICE FOR OUR’N; BLACK MARKET; OFFENSIVE ACTION; WHAT THE HELL, I’LL BE A PAWN; KNOWN SAFE HOUSES; LOST OR FOUND; THE FALLEN; and ASK A REBEL were just a few that stood out to her. Her head felt like it was spinning.

 

“How does it work?”

 

“Rumour ‘as it that this wan an’ a few others were started by the first rebels, waaat was lef’ av the, whatsit yer call it? The Order. Though, ah, no one knows for sure who. A few key ones are on ‘ere—takin’ as much care av the ones who nade (need) emergency ‘elp an’ safe ‘ouses as they can, an’ all that.”

 

The thought of the Order still being out there in some way hit Hermione’s emotions on a physical level. She stood up abruptly and backed away, needing air. Her whole body suddenly felt like it was pounding and shaking.

 

“Ye alrigh’ dare, lassie?”

 

Hermione’s hands rose up to cover her mouth and she was embarrassed that she was about to burst into tears. She closed her eyes and nodded once, then stood there for a second, trying to breathe around the feelings that were choking her. Christie quickly steered her around and gently led her to the living room. He made her sit down on the couch and opened a nearby window, letting in a cool breeze.

 

Hermione cradled her forehead, leaning in towards the refreshing wind. Hesitantly at first, but then easier and with more strength, she breathed in and out deeply through her nose, fighting off the nausea that the spike in emotion had caused.

 

“Tis a bit much ter take in. Aye, Oi nu that.”

 

Hermione leaned back against the couch after a few minutes, feeling better, and opened her eyes. She found Christie leaning back against the couch himself, patiently cleaning out his fingernails with a pocketknife. Hermione smiled. She smiled the biggest smile she’d managed in over three years. Her face felt tight, but Christie met her eyes and grinned, and Hermione’s answering smile grew even bigger.

 

“I want to help.”

 

“Aye.” Christie’s Cheshire grin expanded and his eyes looked more than a little fierce. “Aye—suspected ye wud.”

 

* * *

 

After a quick breakfast of pancakes and warm ginger tea, Hermione began to set up an email account.

 

“Sometimes, the best place ter ‘ide is in plain sight. We git away wit’ a lot online,” he smiled, “but still, never use yer rayle (real) name, though Oi doubt Oi’d be needin’ ter tell ye that. Och, can ‘ardly believe yer towl me, ‘specially roi (right) aff, ter be honest.”

 

Hermione nodded and looked a little embarrassed. “I had a strong feeling about you. That you were trustworthy. You...you made me think of Harry and all of my friends, you know.” She sighed. “Looking back now, it was a perfectly reckless thing to do.”

 

It was a few seconds before Christie spoke, and when he did, his voice was filled with a great deal of respect. “Ye’ve made me day, girlie. Compared ter the likes av him! Trusty lad, wasn’ee?”

 

Hermione’s throat clogged up and her voice was thick when she answered. “Yes. The trustiest.”

 

“He’s watchin’ oyt for ye, ye nu (know).”

 

Hermione nodded and wiped her eyes. “I...I think you must be right.”

 

“Aye, ‘course Oi am! Even a broken clock is roi (right) two times in one day.” He chuckled. “Nigh (Now). Oy (How) aboyt that email address?”

 

Hermione paused, her fingers drumming over the keyboard a few seconds without typing. Finally, she typed ‘melchisedec’. They switched places and Christie logged into the forum and sent her an invitation.

 

Noting his user-name for the first time, Hermione chuckled. “TwistinHay.” She shook her head, at a loss. “What does that mean?”

 

Christie winked at her. “In Oirlan’ (Ireland), if yer twistin’ ‘ay, yer startin’ trouble.”

 

****A/N: A quick note, just in case. Melchisedec is what Sara Crewe names the mouse that she befriends in** ** **_**_The Little Princess_ ** _ ** ****.** **

****Also, I wish I had an Irish accent. *heart*** **


	9. Chapter 8: Run For Help

 

THE EASTERN SEABOARD, UNITED STATES

__A week after Beth becomes sick_ _

 

Sam pounded the wall in frustration as quietly as she could, so as not to wake Beth or Tootie.

 

She wasn’t quiet enough.

 

Beth’s eyes opened slowly, as if the movement caused her a terrific amount of effort, and she eyed Sam with compassion and concern. She couldn’t keep her eyes open for long, but she fought the weight. “Sam,” Beth said softly, barely audible, but Sam froze.

 

Sam turned and faced her little sister, her vision edged with worry bordering on hysteria. She was going crazy. It had been eight days and Beth had only grown worse. Her steady administrations of their precious aspirin and water had had no apparent effect. Beth’s colour was high, her brow, forehead, and hair sweaty, her eyes tired, but her chapped lips were raised in a tremulous smile.

 

“Sam.” Beth coughed, and the rattle tore right through Sam. Beth flinched and then tried to speak again. “Don’t worry so much. I’m—”

 

Sam growled. “If you say you’re fine, so help me—” Sam paused and crumpled, breaking into breathless, quiet sobs.

 

Beth tried to sit up. The effort hurt her chest and she started coughing much worse, then she had to give up and lie back down. She closed her eyes and stretched out her hand towards where Sam was leaning back against the wall. Only a few seconds passed before Sam was at her side, holding her hand, and back under control.

 

Sam sighed with a long exhale and then raised her chin stubbornly, back, more or less, to her normal self. “I’m going for help. You need real medicine...I don’t know what else to do.”

 

Beth nodded and let her eyes settle on Tootie, who was tucked in on his cot, fast asleep on his belly, his butt sticking up in the air. He breathed slowly in and out and Beth was thankful for the millionth time that, somehow, he hadn’t gotten sick yet. “Tell Ammon I said thank you, even if he can’t help.”

 

Sam snorted but gave no other reply. She unlocked the door, opened it, then locked it behind her as she left. Once outside, under the evasive light of the partial moon and the endless shadows that only seemed to appear in the half-dark, Sam sprinted. Her bare feet made no sound on the pavement and she practically flew over the concrete and around corners and alleys that she really had no business running through at night. But she almost welcomed a confrontation to take the edge off of her nerves.

 

She didn’t meet anyone in the dark, however, and her lithe steps eventually led her to Ammon’s doorway. The door was locked, and she huffed in frustration. She knocked firmly and insistently, eyeing the street with caution until she heard movement from within. It sounded like a table fell over. Finally, the door yanked open forcefully amidst cursing and Ammon’s glowering eyes met hers. His expression changed dramatically, his eyes widening in surprise. He gaped for a second, then yanked her in and shut the door behind her. He towered over her for a moment, at a loss, then asked, his voice breathless, “Something’s wrong. What is it? What’s wrong?” His voice rose an octave on the last word.

 

Sam tried to keep her voice even as she replied. Her hand involuntarily covered her eyes, pressing, keeping any more traitorous tears at bay. “It’s Beth. I think she needs antibiotics.” Her throat was tight, and the words were hard to get out.

 

Ammon nodded once and lifted his storage-room key from around his neck. He spoke softly, asking questions as he unlocked the door and gathered up a few supplies. “How long has she been sick? What are her symptoms?”

 

“A rattling cough, a high fever, headache, nausea, weakness...she’s been like this for over a week, but it’s getting worse all of the time.” She met Ammon’s eyes as his head poked out of the door frame for a few seconds. “She can barely move,” she whispered.

 

Ammon took a few long strides and gripped her arms with his huge hands. “She’s going to be just fine, Sam. What about the wee lil’ man? Has he shown any symptoms?”

 

Sam shook her head back and forth silently, shocked that he’d touched her.

 

Ammon noticed her discomfort, but he didn’t let go right away. Instead, he searched her eyes. She looked past the point of exhaustion, and he doubted very much that she’d slept much at all in the past week. Finally, he let her go and stepped back. “I will be back in just a second.”

 

Ammon strode through his storage room agitatedly and wished he had access to fresh food. They were all malnourished. With a final, quick decision, he slipped two bottles of multivitamins that he had saved for his personal use into his bag and searched among the assorted medicines he had until he found a box of expectorant and a bottle of penicillin. Taking a step towards the door, he turned around and selected several cans of broth and chicken noodle soup.

 

When he had locked his storage room again and shrugged on his jacket, Sam stared. Her eyes followed his every movement as he slipped on a pair of boots and double-knotted his shoelaces.

 

“You’re coming?” she asked, even more confused than before.

 

“Don’t be daft, Dark One. Of course I am coming with you. It won’t hurt your reputation to be seen with me,” he grinned smugly, “and I want to see my patient for myself.”

 

Sam blinked. “Your patient?”

 

He ignored her huge eyes and pure astonishment and opened the front door. “After you.”

 

The street outside was cold, but Sam didn’t notice the bite of the concrete against her bare feet. The journey back to The Hole was timeless and surreal. She couldn’t believe that she was going to let someone into their home. She wasn’t convinced she could do it, in all honesty. When they paused at a corner, she couldn’t help but stare up at his dark face.

 

As they neared the garage, Ammon chuckled when he caught her staring again. “You should see your face. You look as though you are going to face a firing squad. Are we almost there, then?”

 

Sam’s eyes narrowed and countered the rise of heat in her cheeks. The garage was only around the corner. She stopped and leaned back against the wall of an abandoned barbershop. “Yes, we’re nearly there. Ammon, I....” She gritted her teeth and squared her shoulders, meeting his warm gaze with her cold one. “If you harm them in any way, I will make you suffer before I kill you.”

 

Ammon tried not to burst out laughing, which was his first instinct, but he nodded as stoically as he could. After a breath, he said, “I would rather die than harm a child. It might be the end of the world, but I am not yet a monster.”

 

Sam swallowed. “I know, I know,” she said quietly, then closed her eyes, drawing strength and resolution from within.

 

“They make you vulnerable,” Ammon whispered, wishing fleetingly that he could do the same. “I feel as though I care greatly for them simply because of how special they are to you. I would never hurt them.”

 

Sam’s throat thickened and she turned away to hide her feelings. She was so tired and stressed and spent that her emotions were much too close to the surface. “Let’s go,” she said after a moment.

 

Sam took a deep breath as she lifted the key from around her neck. She could feel Ammon’s presence at her side so strongly, so acutely, it felt like she was standing much too close to a bonfire. Her hand shook slightly as she unlocked the door and knocked. She could hear Beth’s rattling cough as she opened the door and Toot’s exclamations of joy at her arrival. He must have woken up. Sam frowned at him as she closed the door behind their surprising guest.

 

Both Toot and Beth stilled and Toot’s eyes grew comically wide as his mouth opened and stayed open as he stared up, up, up, and up at Ammon. Toot’s little head was leaning back, his eyes were bright, and suddenly he was grinning from ear to ear. Before Sam could stop him, Toot ran up to Ammon and cried, “Up, up!” and tried to scramble up his legs.

 

Ammon bellowed out a laugh and bent to hold the little wild boy. He was having trouble focusing. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of Toot or Beth, and he kept looking back and forth searchingly between them. He settled for approaching Beth’s bedside as he held onto the curly-headed little tyke.

 

Beth’s eyes were too bright from fever, her long blonde braid loose and damp, her freckle-covered cheeks red and her lips chapped, but Ammon was sure that he’d never seen a more beautiful girl in his life. She was too young, yes, but he was awestruck.

 

He was careful to relax and school his features, because Sam was watching him and she didn’t miss anything. Toot was running his fingers along his jaw, feeling his stubble and giggling in delight, and a tight feeling crept into Ammon’s chest. He never would have imagined it, but he knew suddenly and clearly that he wanted this. He wanted family.

 

Swallowing past the rising jealousy and longing, Ammon folded his long frame and sat in a straight-back chair next to the bed, swinging Tootie up onto his shoulders. Toot laughed and started playing with Ammon’s close-cropped curls. Ammon couldn’t help smiling as he dug through the bag sitting in his lap. He gripped Toot’s legs gently with his other hand so that he wouldn’t fall and then scooted the chair closer to Beth, feeling her forehead and cheeks. Her forehead was scorching, and he wished he had had a thermometer so that he could get an accurate reading.

 

She started coughing, and the rattle was painful to hear. She coughed for a long time. Tootie tried to climb off of him and onto her bed, but Ammon held him fast. “Easy there, monkey,” he cajoled, “let her rest, okay?” Ammon met Sam’s worried gaze and held eye contact as he thought. Finally, he turned back towards the girl and smiled. “You are in luck, you know. My mother was a nurse practitioner. She was,” he chuckled breathily, for it was still hard to think about his family, “ah, quite the overlord, actually. Education was everything in our household....” He swallowed, watching Beth’s face, then cleared his throat and pulled out a small but full bottle of general antibiotics, penicillin. He handed the bottle to Sam and helped Beth to sit up fully.

 

Beth smiled before she swallowed the two tablets that he instructed her to take. “She sounds lovely, like a strong woman.” Beth’s voice was soft and a little weak, but she spoke clearly. “Both of our parents were teachers, so education was very important as well. I always wanted to be a teacher, too, until....” She quieted, then took a sip of a bottle of water and leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes.

 

“And what would you teach, in a better world?” Ammon inquired, curious.

 

“Oh,” Beth sighed softly, “music, like my mom.”

 

“She was special,” Ammon stated, because he knew it was the truth.

 

Beth nodded and Sam came around the bed and scooped Toot up into her arms, retreating with him to his play corner. She didn’t often get down on the floor and play with him like Beth did and he was delighted and kept handing her pieces of wood to stack.

 

Ammon leaned forward and felt along Beth’s neck, checking for swollen lymph nodes. He pulled a small torch (flashlight) out of his pocket and asked her to open her mouth as wide as she could. Her throat was red. He stood. “Do you mind if I use this light to look in your ears?” he asked.

 

Beth sat up straighter and shook her head. “No, not at all.” She tucked her damp curls behind her ears.

 

He gently turned her head from side to side, trying not to get captured by her soft gaze upon him, and shined the light as carefully as he could into her ears, but they, at least, did not appear to be infected or irritated at all. He paid attention to the sounds she made when she was breathing and sighed as he sat back. “My best guess is that you have a severe case of bronchitis or pneumonia. If you take the antibiotics and the cough expectorants I brought twice a day for ten days, I think you should feel as good as new. Be sure to rest, even when you feel better.”

 

Beth reached for his hand and smiled up at him gratefully. “Thank you so much. You didn’t have to do all of this.”

 

“Nonsense. Someone has to keep Sam in line, and I am certainly not up to the task.”

 

Beth laughed, then started coughing and tried to stop. He handed her the water bottle again and when she could, she took small sips. After a quiet minute, she asked him, “What would you have done?”

 

Ammon leaned back in his chair and laughed self-deprecatingly. He scrubbed at his short, curly hair for a few seconds and then sighed. “My answer three years ago would have been easy and very different than what it is now. I wanted to fight. Boxing. I was, ah, a natural, I suppose. I maintained a high enough GPA to satisfy my parents, but my head was always in the ring. We fell out when I was sixteen, because they wanted me to start my applications to university and to pursue a career as a doctor or a lawyer or—well, they sent me here to live with my uncle, who owned the store where I now.... I was so sure of what I wanted, I was willing to defy them. I was only here in Boston a few months before the—before everything changed. Now, I...I don’t know.”

 

Beth bit her lip and nodded with a sigh. She knew what he meant. The last few years had changed everything.


	10. Chapter 9: Revelations

 

ALLERFORD, SOMERSET, ENGLAND

__The following week_ _

 

Hermione spent an hour exploring the forum before she started any real chores. There was a lot of information to sift through and it was hard to tear herself away. She looked at each screen-name with a growing sense of yearning. Who were these people? Was she interacting with someone from her past without even knowing? It was enough to make her head reel. She turned the laptop off and got up from the table with a lingering smile on her face.

 

She stretched and then perused a small shelf in the kitchen filled with a wide variety of cookbooks. The edges were aged, and from the titles, Hermione knew that Christie’s late wife, Laura, must have been the one to purchase and use them. A red and white plaid one titled Quick Meals from Betty Crocker looked like an okay place to start, so she pulled it out and unfolded it on the table. She browsed through the index and came to a stop, her finger just below ‘beef stew...pg. 64.’

 

They didn’t have any beef, she knew, but there was a rabbit left that needed to be cooked soon or frozen.

 

Following the instructions in the cookbook, Hermione soon had a stew simmering on the stove and had even tried her hand at home-made rolls. They didn’t look like the picture, but they were...well, they were horrible. Maybe with a generous amount of butter? She frowned at the lumpy and flat bread; she could have sworn she followed the instructions perfectly. She poked one with a sigh. It was rock hard. She couldn’t help thinking rather fondly of Hagrid’s rock cakes. A deep breath later, she started laughing. Apparently she had a long way to go before she should think about making bread.

 

What to do with them? Christie was out bird-watching again, and she was glad he hadn’t seen this mess.

 

An hour later, Christie walked in the front door as Hermione was mopping up the kitchen and pantry floors. “Why, looky here! Tanks, lass, tis lookin’ sparkly in ‘ere, surely. Ye ready ter take a break?”

 

Hermione smiled and nodded. “Actually, yes. I wanted to ask you about something.”

 

“Sure, what’s dat?”

 

Hermione wrung out the mop and stepped carefully over the wet floor in her socks. “One second, I’ll show you.” She went in and came back out of her room with a carefully rolled up newspaper in her hands.

 

Christie followed her into the living room and she spread it open on the coffee table. Actually, it was an old chest she had found in the pantry filled with Mason jars, newspapers, and cardboard, but she had commandeered it to use as a coffee table.

 

She bit her lip as she viewed the picture of Mr. Weasley once more. “This...this is why I wasn’t at my camp when you got there. I....”

 

Christie nodded and smoothed the paper respectfully. “Oi tink ‘e’s proobably dead,” he finally said.

 

Hermione’s head jerked up and her eyes widened. “What do you mean, probably?”

 

“Walll—”

 

“You mean there’s a chance he isn’t? How could that be?”

 

“Isn’t dat waaat ye were gonna ask me?”

 

Hermione shook her head and blinked away tears. “I was going to ask if you knew anything about...about him...or his family. What happened to them. The Weasleys.”

 

“Walll nigh (now), Oi wish Oi did, girlie. Supposedly they’re all dead, but Oi wud only take it with a grain av salt. Dis trash is propaganda tiddle. Naw wan (No one) actually reads it. Or believes it. Oi jist keep dem fer me compost.” He winked at her, nodding at the stack of newspapers on top of the bookcase in the corner.

 

Hermione’s heart started pounding with the possibilities. There was a chance, however small....

 

* * *

 

New life buzzed through Hermione’s veins. She tackled everything she could during the day: deep cleaning, dusting, organizing, and cooking. Christie kept on at her to slow down, to take a rest, but she couldn’t. It was wonderful to feel useful again. Wonderful to be clean and to be able to eat seconds of anything she liked. But even more wonderful than this was the few hours after dinner when Christie retired for the evening and all was quiet in the house. She would make herself a hot cuppa and have a bit of shortbread or whatever dessert she had made recently, click on the Tiffany lamp on Christie’s roll-top desk, and bring the laptop out of sleep mode.

 

Hermione was slowly getting to know a few of the regulars. No personal information was allowed, nothing specific whatsoever. It was a little odd, at first, greeting someone by pseudonym only and having no idea who they really were or where they were from. She wanted to learn every bit about The Resistance and about the rebels that she could, so she had been taking notes in an empty spiral-bound notebook Christie had given her. She hoped putting on paper what she learned about each member would help her to discern if she might know them. Too, she had been jotting down thoughts of how the rebels could one day turn the tide. Her ideas weren’t practical in the least, but she wrote them down anyway.

 

The more that she learned about what was going on in the world, the more desperate she became to make a difference. Everything had changed. She couldn’t figure out how Voldemort had overpowered so many countries so quickly after she and Harry were taken prisoner. It had taken Voldemort seven years to defeat a child, after all. Something didn’t add up. There wasn’t any pertinent information concerning the end of the war on the forum that she could find and she made a mental note to ask Christie about it when he returned.

 

The current topics garnering the most attention on the forum revolved around recent rumours. Hermione felt sick to her stomach when she read that the standing Minister, Montague, was passing a new act that stipulated that Muggles in Europe were not going to be able to make any wages. Decreased rations, again, too, were around the corner. A few members, Asphodel and ManDrake, were rather grim on the subject.

 

* * *

 

“Ye missed a lot whaen ye were trapped in de Tower, dat’s for sure, lass. Oi don’ tink Oi shud tell yer all av it. Tis too...ah, tis ‘ard ter even say. An’ much av waaat Oi nu (know) is pure speculashun, understan’.” Christie paused and watched Hermione’s face carefully for signs that she couldn’t handle what he was about to tell her. “People jist...dropped dead. Dare was naw (no) rhyme or reason. Rumour ‘as it dat most major cities are abandoned or overrun by gangs.”

 

Hermione trembled. “What-what do you mean? How could...?”

 

Christie sighed. “Tis...tis ‘ard ter explain. De sun an’ moon turned red; Ah’ll never forget dat as long as Oi live. De skies rained fire, an’ water, it turned ter blood. Lord Whatsit, it wus everywhere dat he wus gonna stop de death an’ de destruction. He lifted de plagues, as he called dem, turnin’ oceans an’ lakes an’ everythin’ back ter water; the skies cleared－many av dose lef worshipped ‘im. Called ‘im a ‘ero.” Christie shook his head. “Oi cannae brag aboyt much, lass, but Oi can say dat Oi never fell for de act.”

 

It took Hermione a minute to collect her thoughts and when she met Christie’s eye, she still felt disbelief. “That doesn’t make any sense. How could anything like that happen? And, what did you mean, before, about the cities? How many people exactly...?”

 

Christie shook his head sadly. “Ye don’ want ter nu, trust me. Too many. Too many good people died. An’ that’s jist a rumour aboyt de cities, ye nu. Oi don’t nu it for a fact.” He paused, then looked thoughtful. “Some...well, i’ sounds a bit crazy ter me, but waaat doesn’t dees days, aye? Dare are dohs who tink dat ‘e’s got de power av de gods on ‘is side.” Christie exhaled loudly at the idea. “Hogwash in me opinion, but Oi’m at a loss as ter waaat de truth might be.”

 

“The....”

 

“Towl (Told) yer it wus crazy.” Christie laughed, then turned the conversation in a different direction. “Naw matter waaat, dis Lord Whatsit fella won’t win forever. We Muggles might not ‘ave magic at our disposal, but our ver’ nature is defiant. An’, we’ve got weapons enoof av our’n.”

 

Shaking, Hermione fought away the nausea at the thought of so many innocent people lost. She couldn’t believe it. The only way she could breathe was to pretend, for the moment, anyway, that it wasn’t true. “We have to do something. I can only imagine what Dumbledore would do in this situation...but, we...if we could divide his ranks as much as possible....”

 

Christie nodded. “Better yet wud be some well-placed spies.”

 

Hermione’s hands trembled even harder at that thought and she shook her head forcefully once, but then sighed. “I concede. Yes, that would be helpful....”

 

“Rumor ‘as it dat we ‘av a few, but t’be sure, Oi’m no’ high up enoof on de ladder ter nu a tin’ aboyt it.”

 

Hermione drummed her fingers on the cover of her notebook for a few moments, lost in memories of a spy who had been too good at his job.

 

Christie interjected, “Oi wonder, lassie, oy (how) ye do it? Ah’ve been stewin’ and ponderin’ and plottin’ til me ‘ead’s fit ter burst.”

 

“Hmm?” Hermione’s fingers suddenly stilled as the depth of his question reached her. Her mouth opened a few times, but it took her a minute to get the words past the lump in her throat. “Oh, Christie. I-I can’t pretend I haven’t been to hell and back. You can’t imagine....”

 

Christie didn’t say anything; he just nodded, his eyes kind.

 

Hermione’s hands started shaking and she clasped them between her knees. She rather wondered if talking about it would help. She finally said, “I thought I was going to die. No—I knew I was.” She paused for a few deep breaths. “I was desperate to, well before the last...to be honest.” Her eyes welled with tears and she stared down at her hands for several silent seconds. When she spoke next, her voice was quiet and Christie had to lean forward in his chair to hear. “It’s strange. I’d never liked him, you see. I suppose, over the years, I despised and felt sorry for him in equal measure, and, well, despite everything, I did appreciate his thirst for knowledge. By my last year at Hogwarts I...I did wonder about him.” She sighed, a few tears slipping down her cheeks, and her voice was thick. “I’m not sure I can talk about it.”

 

“Aye. ‘course. Sorry, lass, yer don’t ‘av ter (have to).”

 

Hermione nodded, then exhaled slowly. “No, I－I think...I...should. You’ve been ever so kind to me and it’s the least I can do. I just—I might need a moment here and there.”

 

Christie nodded and Hermione was about to open her mouth to begin, when he stood up and insisted on making them both tea first. “Ginger root, tis jist waaat ye nade (need). Ah’ll jist be two shakes av a lamb’s tail.”

 

Hermione gathered her wayward emotions while Christie made them each a quick cup of tea. Her hands stopped shaking and she eased back onto the side of the couch, pulling a soft pillow in front of her protectively. Christie handed her a warm cup and settled in the chair nearby.

 

Hermione absently stirred the tea, dissolving the honey settled in the bottom of the cup with a small spoon for several moments before she began. “It may come as a surprise that I owe my life to a Death Eater. We...we knew each other from Hogwarts. I am not sure, exactly, how long I had been held prisoner when I saw him. Harry had been...gone...oh, Merlin...it felt like forever. I longed for the end. To be reunited with—with Harry and Ron and my parents and countless others. It was the only thing I had to hold onto; that eventually, it would all be over and I would be free from the pain and the dark and the....” A soft sob escaped her and she tried to take a sip of the tea, tried to catch her breath.

 

Several moments passed in silence and then Hermione continued, her eyes fastened on the teacup in her lap. “I...the few hours before had been...” she shuddered, “I was still delirious from the pain. I was lying in my cell, alone for once, when he came in very quietly with a bowl of broth. I’d never...his eyes...he was shocked. I remember he locked the door and tried to help me sit up. He kept going on about how I had to eat the soup.” She laughed softly, still overwhelmed by the difference she had seen in him. “I hadn’t eaten anything in ages—I had given up. He held me up and spoon fed me, which at the time didn’t really register, but ever since, I can’t seem to...to get it out of my head. I still find it hard to believe. He Apparated us outside of the dungeons and to a deserted countryside in the Highlands, not far from a farm. I collapsed after that. I wish I remembered it all better. Part of the time, there was a lot of pain, from healing spells. He healed me as much as he could, but was running out of time. I remember that he said he had to go. He settled me under a tree to rest and said that he would return soon with decent clothes for me and food and such, but...he never came back.” Hermione bit her lip and closed her eyes for a long moment. “I never saw Draco Malfoy again.”


	11. Chapter 10: Abandoned

ALLERFORD, SOMERSET, ENGLAND

__Later_ _

 

Hermione sat up half the night. Sitting on her bed, her knees pulled up to her chest, her head in her hands, she grieved for Harry, for Ron, for everyone who might be gone, and all of the innocent Muggles who had died, tools in Voldemort’s climb to power. It all made her so angry, she couldn’t hardly stand it. Her jaw ached from clenching her teeth so hard, and blue sparks, the first magic she had manifested since her imprisonment, raced along her hair. The late hour finally won, though, and she laid down. Her sleep, fragmented and unrestful, was punctuated with some of her worst memories.

 

[[ _ _dream flashback__ ]]

 

Hermione stared at the small group crowding into her cell. She was momentarily taken aback to see her former professor after all of this time. His face was cold and frozen in a glare, and while she gaped at him, he resolutely avoided her eyes.

 

But then, Bellatrix started chatting, and Hermione shrunk against the wall warily. Just the sound of her voice set her on edge. And then－What is that smell? Hermione wondered.

 

“So nice that you could join us, Severus,” Bellatrix purred insincerely, glancing down at a large metal can Rodolphus had just set down with a noticeable clang against the flagstone floor. “I must admit, Half-bloods are good for one thing.” Bellatrix sneered as she abruptly stepped forward and slammed Hermione down against the floor of the cell.

 

Hermione didn’t react to the sharp pain and shrunk into herself, making herself as small as possible. Bellatrix smiled at her, and Hermione’s heart skittered and then pounded frightfully in her chest.

 

“Glockenspieler has been enlightening us a great deal concerning the Muggles’ ideas of torture.” Bellatrix paused and met the cool obsidian eyes of Severus Snape nearby, then the eyes of her husband and Lucius Malfoy. “They say,” she paused long enough to smile radiantly down at The Mudblood crouched on the dirty floor, “fire is the worst.”

 

Cold ice raced down Hermione’s spine, and she shuffled back against the wall. Bellatrix met her husband’s smirk with one of her own and then nodded. Rodolphus hefted the large can of petrol and eagerly untwisted the lid, then as Hermione tried to get away despite her chains’ strong resistance, he turned the can over, spilling the odorous liquid all over her legs and abdomen. Hermione started to hyperventilate. She stared at the man who used to be one of her favourite professors, silently begging him to do something. But he just stood there, his face impassive. He could have been at a lecture expounding on the delights of flobberworms for all of the interest he was paying her.

 

When Bellatrix raised her wand, his eyes finally met hers.

 

Bellatrix couldn’t help the giggle that escaped. “Incendio!”

 

Hermione hated to scream, to give them the satisfaction; but there was no holding one back.

 

Almost worse than the pain, which was excruciating, was the smell.

 

Hermione gasped for breath and her wild, pleading eyes held on to the hard gaze of her professor. But then－he broke the eye contact and stared at the wall, his face a contrast of hard lines.

 

And, she knew what abandonment felt like.

 

It hurt. It hurt so much.

 

* * *

 

There was a terrific scrambling of limbs and tangled quilts and Hermione sat bolt upright, gasping and sobbing. Her eyes clenched shut and she doubled over in the bed, crying so hard she felt like she was going to throw up. She climbed clumsily and shakily out of the bed and stumbled towards the doorway, righting herself by grasping onto the doorknob. Her body was shuddering and her left hand was clasped over her mouth.

 

Christie met her in the hallway, looking unkempt and sleepy. He pulled her close and quickly steered her towards the bathroom while her knees knocked. “Child, lass, shhh, tis okay, you’re alrigh’. Almos’—steady on dare.” He helped her ease in front of the toilet and opened the lid for her.

 

Hermione held on to the floor near her knees as she lost her dinner, heaving wrenchingly two, three, four times into the porcelain bowl. Sobs renewed in their strength after the nausea wore away and Hermione turned and drew her knees up to her chest and bent her head, unable to stem the flow of tears. Christie was murmuring something, she wasn’t sure what, but soon she felt a cool, wet cloth on the back of her neck and then he was pressing another one into her hand.

 

Hermione gratefully used it to clean her face off, her fingers weak and trembling, and then she held the wet cloth against her forehead as she balled up once more. Her tears were so hot, they were burning her face. She started hiccuping. A fresh wave of sobs shook her as her mind’s eye brought back the clear memory of her professor breaking his gaze, staring rigidly at the wall. Normally, Hermione hid behind a wall of righteous anger where he was concerned, a nice and safe and comforting blanket of anger, but tonight, right now, all she felt was a deep and painful ache, like her heart was going to implode.

 

She felt so empty.

 

So empty.

 

* * *

 

NEAR GAIRLOCH, HIGHLANDS, SCOTLAND

__The same evening_ _

 

Severus retched into the sink, then rinsed his mouth out and splashed water on his face. His hands were shaking, but he ignored the trembling. He left the bathroom and paced around the small bedroom, wearing down the path in the carpet still further. His steps eventually brought him to the tall diamond-paned window beside his large and untidy desk as they usually did, and he stared out. The night sky was overcast and he could not see any stars or even the moon. As his breathing slowed and the memory lingered solely upon her gaze, the image of which only seemed to become sharper with time, he stared past his reflection in the glass, not seeing himself but a broken girl, asking for his help. His hand raked roughly down his face, and he sighed. He hadn’t been able to make it back in time.

 

* * *

 

THE DARK TOWER, UNPLOTTABLE

__flashback_ _

 

Lucius caught him heading back down the flight of stairs leading to her cell and imparted on him what he thought would be good news. Draco had been commissioned to bring The Mudblood her meals; after all, no one else really wanted the bother any longer; she wasn’t a high security prisoner since Potter’s death a few months before, was she? Why should they have to waste their time feeding the chit, keeping her alive? But, Lucius had laughed, exulting in how kind fate had been. The girl had saved them all the trouble and kicked the bucket. Draco had found her, and wasn’t he relieved?

 

When Severus had appeared to somewhat reluctantly offer to take care of the corpse, Lucius had patted him on the shoulder and told him not to worry about it; he’d already seen to it. After Lucius departed, Severus continued down the stairs, frustrated as hell and full of regret, and when he reached the door to her cell, he found Draco standing outside with a completely blank look in his eyes.

 

The poor kid was in shock, no doubt. Severus opened the door with a hard grip on his wand, tapping twice, and let himself into the cell for a moment. It was empty, dark, oppressive, and he couldn’t believe that she’d lived as long as she had. Almost a year in this hole. Stronger even than Potter. Why couldn’t she have lasted one more day? Anger and indignation nearly suffocated him. He left, closing the door behind him softly, and Draco followed him up the many flights of stairs.

 

They didn’t speak. There were really no words.

__

* * *

 

NEAR GAIRLOCH, HIGHLANDS, SCOTLAND

__Back to 2001_ _

 

At the principal safe house, Severus’s long legs carried him to his bed, and he sat down heavily on the edge, lowering his face into his hands.

 

She’d been gone now well over a year.

 

He’d never be free of her.

 

* * *

 

ALLERFORD, SOMERSET, ENGLAND

__A few days later_ _

 

Hermione woke quietly and turned over onto her side. The sky was still dark outside her window. A glance at the alarm clock on her night-stand showed that dawn was still a few hours away. Three in the morning and she was wide awake. With a sigh, she pulled the quilt up around her shoulders and snuggled down into her pillow and closed her eyes stubbornly, willing away the hot tears she could feel building. She hadn’t been able to shake the melancholy after the other night. She felt raw. When a few tears leaked out, soaking into her pillowcase, Hermione sat up and pushed her blankets back.

 

She couldn’t take another minute of lying in bed crying. If she couldn’t sleep, she would just get started on her day. She stretched for a minute and then turned on the light switch. Opening the top drawer of a short and wide dresser, she unrolled a pair of socks and quickly slipped one on each foot. October had arrived in a horrible temper, cold, wet, and windy, and she was so thankful that she had a warm and safe place to stay. Renewed gratitude helped take the edge off of her wayward emotions. Hermione made her bed, turned off her light and padded quietly to the kitchen.

 

Fresh coffee and an hour or two on the forum, that’s what she needed.

 

Hermione filled the percolator half-full with water as the laptop hummed and beeped in an arrested beat, slowly booting up. After scooping coarse coffee grounds into the top chamber, she set the percolator on the stove and turned the burner up to medium-high, so that the water would start boiling in a few minutes. The smell of coffee brewing was invigorating.

 

Hermione drank three cups while reading and posting on the forums and was wide awake and covered in flour, pulling a pan of a simple apple cake out of the oven when Christie walked into the kitchen, sniffing appreciatively.

 

Christie glanced at the clock with a laugh. It was 6 a.m. “Ye sleep at all last noight, girlie?”

 

Hermione smiled and set the cinnamon-spiced dessert upon the counter to cool. “A little. Enough. There’s hot coffee if you would like some to go with a bit of cake.”

 

“Oi believe Oi do! Tanks, lass. Ye nu, Oi do believe Oi’m gettin’ spoil’t.”

 

Hermione smiled, closing the oven door and setting aside the oven gloves (potholders). “Me too.”


	12. Chapter 11: Better Off

 

****Chapter warnings: strong cursing** ** ****(for me, anyway, lol).** **

 

THE EASTERN SEABOARD, UNITED STATES

__Three days_ _ __after Ammon came to The Hole to give Beth medicine_ _

__

“Hello!” Ammon grinned as Beth opened the door after he used their coded knock for entry.

 

Beth’s whole face lit up. “Ammon! Hello!” She stepped back to allow him in. “I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done. How are you?”

 

“It is I who should be asking you how you are doing.” His light brown eyes took in her healthy glow and her flushed cheeks with satisfaction.

 

“I’m much better, thanks to you.” She shut the door behind him, locking it, and crossed the room to the sink to wash her hands. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Ammon looked around the garage. He hadn’t noticed much about it the first time. It was a large space, mostly open, with concrete floors and a high industrial ceiling. A small table near the free-standing sink that Beth was washing her hands in was surrounded by three different kinds of chairs; a black office chair, a dark brown metal folding chair, and a wooden kitchen chair with arms and a pile of pillows stacked on its seat; presumably, that was Tootie’s seat. An old turquoise blue mason jar was filled with fake sunflowers and sat at the centre of the table. Several wooden and plastic crates were piled up side by side and on top of each other near the sink, climbing so high that they had to be fastened to the wall somehow to keep them from tumbling over. All sorts of odds and ends filled the shelves, including some food, blankets, clothes, and a surprisingly large collection of books.

 

Beth noticed Ammon taking an interest in their storage space and smiled at him, approaching her beloved bookshelf. “When we had to leave our home behind, Sam filled her backpack with cans of food and toothbrushes and everything practical she could carry.” Beth chuckled. “I filled mine with books. Sam was furious when she found out. She made me go back with her to get more essential items. I slipped in a few more books while we were going through our house when she wasn’t looking,” she added with a grin.

 

Ammon laughed with her, though he had never really read any books just for fun. Any books that he had had to crack open were for school and a duty, not a joy. “You love to read, then?”

 

“Yes.” Beth nodded. “I’ve worn these poor books out, I’ve read them so many times. But I love them. I read to Tootie a lot. He isn’t old enough to grasp a lot of the story, especially since his world is so small…but, he loves it.” She turned away from the shelves and faced him. “Do you like to read?”

 

Ammon shook his head. “No, I never did. I was not an eager student by any stretch of the imagination growing up. Reading something for class was always a chore and I didn’t bother with it in my spare time.” He paused, then asked, “What’s your favourite?”

 

“Oh, definitely __Little Women__.” At Ammon’s blank expression, Beth laughed. “The pages are falling out, I’ve read it so many times. I adore Marmee and Jo and Teddy and Mr. Bhaer and…well, all of the characters, really. Toot’s name is actually Teddy－well, Theodore, but Teddy for short,” Beth revealed, nodding at the little boy, who was asleep in the corner, cuddled up with an old, raggedy teddy bear. “He had the worst gas when he was a baby.” Beth laughed and Ammon grinned, watching the little guy sleep with warm eyes. “I can laugh about it now, but at the time, it actually scared me. It was so bad.” She groaned. “Sam used to call him Stinky. Awful! Somehow we landed on Tootie and it’s stuck. Anyway,” Beth shrugged, returning to the previous conversation, “Sam thinks I’m wasting my time when I’m wrapped up with a good book.” She smiled. “It’s helped me a lot, though.”

 

“Maybe I should pick up a book now and then.” Ammon grinned at her, knowing that his mother would have been shocked to have heard him say such a thing.

 

“Maybe I’ll convert you.” Beth laughed.

 

“Maybe,” Ammon allowed.

 

The curly-headed little one turned over on his cot, blinking slowly and trying to wake up. “Bethy?” Tootie’s voice was a little garbled, because he was still half asleep.

 

Beth glanced at Ammon and then approached Tootie, who was now sitting up, rubbing his eyes. “Hey, sleepyhead! Did you have a nice nap?”

 

Tootie stretched again and then clambered out of his blankets, his hair sticking up everywhere. Beth chuckled at him, and Ammon found his feet taking him closer to the sleeping area.

 

Tootie began clapping excitedly when he noticed Ammon, then ran up to him, his arms outstretched. “Up, up __high__!!”

 

Ammon laughed and reached down to pick him up, then tossed him gently in the air. The little guy squealed and begged him to do it again. Ammon obliged, tossing him up a few times, then swung Tootie around to sit on his shoulders. Ammon asked Beth, “It’s only been three days, are you sure that you’re feeling all right? Do you want to sit down?”

 

Smiling, Beth reached up to tickle Tootie’s toes, making him giggle and pound his fists on the top of Ammon’s head. Beth laughed, then answered his question. “I promise, I feel much better. But I have been resting,” she hastened to add. “I took a nap with Toot and woke up right before you got here.”

 

Ammon held onto Toot with one hand and dug in his pocket with the other. “I brought some tea bags. Would you like a cup? It will help speed your recovery.”

 

“Sure.” Beth filled two cups with water and placed them in the microwave.

 

“Where’s Sam?” Ammon asked, curious.

 

“She’s meeting with Ricky today. She usually does on Thursdays.”

 

“Who’s Ricky?” Ammon paused, then added, “That’s rude of me. You don’t have to tell me.”

 

“Oh, no, it’s okay. Ricky Mendoza; he’s a member of The Cardinals.”

 

Ammon digested that bit of information in silence. Rick the sick. Ricky didn’t come into The Hive very often, but whenever he did, he was usually sporting a black eye or worse. Everyone was skinny, but this kid was tiny. It was a bit of a well-known joke for some of the losers around to beat up on him. It had been awhile since Ammon had seen him and he was surprised that he was still out there.

 

The microwave dinged. While Beth moved to retrieve their cups of hot water, Ammon sat down and settled Tootie on his lap. Beth set a cup in front of him and he thanked her. He dipped a teabag in the water with a spoon for several moments, bobbing the bag up and down, manoeuvring Tootie so that he couldn’t reach the hot cup. His face was set in a frown.

 

Beth sat across from them and while her tea steeped, she watched the play of emotions across Ammon’s face. He was definitely troubled by something.

 

“Sam and Ricky used to run track together.” Beth paused as Ammon’s direct gaze took her breath away for a moment. She tucked her hair behind her ear nervously and fiddled with her spoon. “He’s a good guy. I know that Sam wishes he would stay here with us rather than trying to make it out there, pretty much on his own, with The Cardinals. But, he’s refused every time she asked.” Beth sighed. “I know that Sam can seem kind of cold sometimes, but she wasn’t always like that. Even here, sometimes, she turns her emotions off and I can’t tell….” Beth shook her head. “But, it doesn’t happen very often.” She paused thoughtfully. “If she cares about someone, she’ll do anything within her power to protect them.”

 

Ammon nodded thoughtfully and took a sip of the slightly-steaming lemon ginger tea. Changing the subject, he asked, “So, what is this __Little Women__  about?”

 

* * *

 

__A month later_ _

__

Lightning crashed in the distance. Ammon lowered the hood of his jacket and knocked twice on the metal door of the building with a fading Al’s Auto Repair sign out front. It was quiet on the streets; he was the only idiot out in this weather. He was about to knock again when the heavy door swung open, presenting his favourite brunette. Sam’s scowl was even more pronounced than usual.

 

Ammon grinned, ignoring the ready blade in her hand. He nodded. “Good evening, Dark One.”

 

Sam shut the door behind her, stowing her blade up her sleeve, and crossed her arms. “Ammon.”

 

Ammon kept his face as neutral as possible and waited. When she didn’t say anything else, only glaring at him for a few minutes, Ammon sighed. He slipped off the backpack he had filled with clothes and a few books that he had managed to find and held it out, dangling it on one finger. “I brought presents.”

 

She eyed the bag for a moment and then shook her head. “Ammon. Listen. We need to talk.”

 

“Sam—”

 

“This can’t go on.”

 

Ammon’s smile faded, though he tried to keep his tone light. “Calm down, Charlie Brown, I only—”

 

“Don’t mess with me, Ammon. I’m serious.”

 

“Seriously overreacting about something. What’s got your panties in a twist?

 

Sam eyed him with cautious eyes and ignored the rain dripping through her hair and down her neck. “I don’t want Beth to get hurt.”

 

Thunder rolled, closer this time, and Ammon fought down his rising temper. “You don’t want to see Beth get hurt.” He paused, taking several deep breaths. “Why is it, I wonder, that you look at me and think that I am going to hurt her?”

 

“Beth,” Sam paused, “she doesn’t see people as they really are—”

 

Ammon’s fist clenched around the strap of the backpack. His voice was calm, but inside, he was starting to boil. “And how am I, really?”

 

Sam huffed. “Come off it, Ammon. Don’t forget that I know you. I may have never commented on your extracurricular activities before, but I know your reputation.” She paused. “Beth isn’t someone you can just use for your own amusement and then discard.”

 

The sinking, cold feeling in his stomach warred with the red encroaching upon his vision. Ammon took a step back. “I am not sure what you are imagining, but there is only friendship between us.”

 

Sam shook her head sadly. Beth was going to kill her, but this couldn’t go on. “I’m not a fool. You want much more. I’m not blind, you know. And, Beth is…she’s not someone that you can just play house with, Ammon. If she falls for you, she’s only going to end up completely shattered. It would only be a matter of time.”

 

The unfairness of her words battled against his better judgement and he struggled to keep his temper. “Sam.” Ammon couldn’t catch his breath. The dread that filled him was overwhelming. “Do not do this. Please. We are just friends. She is too young and much too good for me. I know that. And,” he glared, fuming, “I have never taken advantage of anyone. They don’t expect anything from me except for an occasional—” He gritted his teeth and changed his tone. “It doesn’t matter. Beth is different.”

 

Sam kept her stance firm and reached back for the doorknob. “She’s better off without you. I mean it, don’t come back.”

 

She slipped through the door and locked it behind her.

 

Ammon stared at the dull metal for several minutes, too wrapped up in thoughts of Beth and Toot to notice the rain that was pouring down, soaking him through.

 

* * *

 

__A few days later_ _

__

Ammon forced a smile when his door opened quietly and Sam stood in the doorway, the first time he’d seen her since she’d told him to back off. Her face was as impassive as he’d ever seen it and he repressed a sigh. He was playing along for now, but he was quickly losing patience.

 

“Good morning.”

 

No answer.

 

Sam emptied her bag and stood waiting, tight-lipped and tense.

 

“How is everyone?” Ammon tried again, gritting his teeth when she refused to answer. “Okay,” he muttered around clenched teeth and headed to his storage room, trying not to lose his cool. Sam was being ridiculous. He grabbed a few cans of soup and a Hershey’s Kiss from his shelves and then shut the door behind him with a little more force than necessary. “Here you go.” He dropped everything on the counter.

 

Sam gathered the cans up, not saying anything, but left the candy on the counter. When she turned to go, Ammon couldn’t stop the words that blurted out of his mouth, “Have they asked about me?”

 

Sam paused on her way to the door, but didn’t reply or turn around. When she was gone, Ammon slumped against the edge of the counter. His fingers pressed hard against his eyes as he groaned.

 

* * *

 

__Two weeks later_ _

__

No matter how hard he tried, Ammon couldn’t sleep worth a damn. Sam’s crazy forced exile was killing him. He had begged and cussed and shouted, but Sam remained quiet and refused to speak to him.

 

Suddenly he was a pariah. It was ridiculous. He couldn’t take it any longer.

 

The bell rang as his door opened and Ammon stopped pacing in the storage room and headed towards the front with a singular purpose. He was going to tell Sam to go to hell and then march his ass across town and beg Beth to open the door.

 

It wasn’t Sam. Ammon paused in his tracks. Ricky, the kid that Sam was friends with, was leaning against the door jamb, holding his elbow, his face a patchwork of bruises, his lip bleeding.

 

Ricky began to sag against the door frame and, without giving it another thought, Ammon rushed forward. Ricky flinched back, but Ammon just reached to support him, holding onto him around his waist. The way that the kid was grasping his elbow, Ammon was pretty sure that it was broken. He didn’t make a sound or indicate that he was in pain as Ammon led him over to the chair behind his counter and Ammon had to give him that.

 

He had broken his collarbone once in the ring and had cussed up a storm the entire drive to the hospital because it had hurt like a bitch.

 

Ricky sat down, exhaling in relief. Ammon rocked back on his heels, waiting for some kind of explanation.

 

After a quiet moment, Ricky began laughing, the sound escaping him full of bitterness. “Assholes.” He leaned back against the chair, his face pinched from the pain.

 

After a moment, Ammon said, “I have something that will help. Just a moment.”

 

Ricky nodded and closed his eyes. Ammon came back with a roll of self-adhering wrap, a sling, a couple of painkillers, and a bottle of water. Ricky swallowed the pills gratefully and gulped down the rest of the water in the bottle before Ammon could take it away or something.

 

“Who did this to you?”

 

“Does it matter?” Ricky swore under his breath as he accidentally brushed his elbow against the arm of the chair.

 

“I guess not.” Ammon frowned. “You’re a mess. Why don’t you go try to take a shower and then we’ll get your arm wrapped up and all set?”

 

Ricky shook his head, grinning in disbelief. “Cripes, Beth said that you were really nice, but I didn’t actually believe her.”

 

“Beth?” Ammon’s voice came out a bit higher than he would have liked. “Have you seen her lately?”

 

“Nah.” Ricky sighed, trying to stand back up. “ _ _Hijo de perra__ —” He growled under his breath, grimacing. It hadn’t hurt much at first, but now his arm was really throbbing. “I stopped by The Hole, but no one answered. Really weird. Even if Sam’s not there, Beth always lets me in.”

 

“What?” Ammon’s heart sunk.

 

“I yelled through the door for a good five minutes, then waited a bit and tried again. Nothing.”

 

“Maybe they were asleep?” Ammon whispered, though somehow, he didn’t believe it.

 

“I don’t know, man. Maybe.”

 

Ammon swallowed back the sick, foreboding feeling that was creeping over him and led Ricky towards his bathroom. “There’s clean towels.” He nodded towards a cabinet. “Stay put. I’m going to run over there and see….” His voice trailed off. He couldn’t finish the thought.

 

Ricky nodded.

 

“You stupid enough to steal anything, kid?”

 

Ricky chuffed out a laugh. “Yeah. Probably. But I won’t do it.”

 

“I will be back.”

 

Heading outside, Ammon’s steps grew quicker the closer he got to The Hole, until he was sprinting down the empty streets, barrelling around the corners, feeling sick inside.

 

He should have done something sooner. Shit. Sam. Shit.

 

He already knew that no one would answer. Pounding on the thick metal door until he ran out of breath only cemented the knowledge. Ammon gripped the door handle, resting his head against the cold metal, and closed his eyes.

 

They were gone.

 

* * *

 

****A/N: I know. :(( Really hard to write. You can thank NaNoWriMo that I finally got this chapter finished. Thank you for reading! I really appreciate it. Feedback is amazing and I** ** ****always** ** ****appreciate an honest review.** **


	13. Chapter 12: An Order Meeting

NEAR GAIRLOCH, HIGHLANDS, SCOTLAND

__A few days before Sam, Beth, and Tootie disappear...._ _

 

There was a busy early-morning scene out of doors. Abrupt bell-like calls from nearby scrub-jays invaded the privacy of Severus’s thoughts. The birds were battling enthusiastically at the edge of the windowsill, trilling insults at each other. In the distance, stray dogs barked in a much less antagonistic manner. Severus stood at the window, thinking about the progress he had made last night, if it could be called that, and about the later meeting. He started as the house came alive, foremost with the twins barrelling down the stairs, making a ton of racket, as usual.

 

“Breakfast! Oi—breakfast! Don’t dawdle! Peaky, ehhh, Longbottom?”

 

Ruckus, shouts, and short bursts of laughter echoed from the hallway outside his door. Severus scowled. He only stayed at the Weasleys’ safe house on the nights before meetings, but he was tempted to give it up. The convenience wasn’t really worth it.

 

Severus changed clothes slowly despite the fact that he was starving. He hadn’t had time the day before to eat after a rushed breakfast and when he’d arrived back in Scotland, he’d been too tired to do anything but slowly climb the stairs and fall asleep on top of his bed in one of the guest rooms. Still, he’d rather go hungry for a bit than eat with that lot. Molly was always kind enough to save him a generous helping and to keep the coffee hot.

 

When Severus finally went downstairs, he found the landing and the dining room mostly empty. His shoulders relaxed a bit and he sat down at the head of the table, allowing Molly to pour him a steaming cup of coffee. Her hand was shaking and she set a heaping plate of black pudding, toast, and scrambled eggs before him. He nodded at her. “Thank you.”

 

Molly adjusted her apron and then sat down in the empty chair next to him. She leaned against the edge of the table, turning her wedding ring around and around on her finger anxiously for a few seconds. She opened her mouth, clamped it shut, pursed her lips, and then looked out the window.

 

Severus raised an eyebrow at her. “Molly, will you kindly stop your worrying? You’re going to give me indigestion.”

 

Molly snorted, shaking her head, but she couldn’t help the wobble in her voice as all of her worries came tumbling out. “This is a mistake. What if—what if when it happens, we’re massacred? I couldn’t stand,” she paused, then whispered, “I’ve only three left. What if everything goes wrong?”

 

Severus opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the sudden appearance of two more people in the dining area. With an inarticulate sound, somewhere between a grunt and a snort, he turned back to his food and began to tuck in.

 

Ginny sat down next to her mum and reached for her hand. “Mum, it’s going to be okay. We’ve been training like mad. We’re strong. Voldy’s ranks have no idea—”

 

Severus spluttered into his coffee. His voice rose indignantly, “VOLDY?”

 

Ginny smiled serenely at him. “Yes, quite the ring to it, don’t you think? Makes him seem quite tame, somehow. Not near as frightening.”

 

Of all the ridiculous—! Severus resolutely ignored Draco laughing in the doorway. “You—out. All of you. Merlin. Can’t a man eat in peace?”

 

Draco sidled up next to Ginny as she headed out the door. Severus shook his head and glared at Molly until a small smile broke through the worry lines on her face and she stood up.

 

She sighed. “Quite right, I suppose. I shouldn’t worry...I can’t seem to help—” She shook slightly, but her shoulders squared resolutely and she wiped her eyes with the edge of her apron. Her voice drifted back to Severus as she headed towards the kitchen, “If only Arthur....”

 

Severus glared down at his eggs and continued eating. Afterwards, he washed off his plate and silverware, preferring to do it the Muggle way at the moment, and dried them off with a towel. As he was pouring himself another cup of coffee, he could hear some of the gathering Order members chatting as they stood near the doorway, waiting for everyone else to arrive. With coffee in hand, Severus left the kitchen and returned to the dining table, taking his customary spot at the head of the table. He nodded at Minerva who was standing by the door, then turned his chair a bit towards a nearby window, focusing more on his thoughts than on the growing crowd nearby.

 

A local Order meeting was scheduled to begin shortly. Several Orders at various locations worldwide met every fortnight, with interchanging members depending upon which country a witch or wizard was in at the time. The Board, the organization of all of the top-ranked Order members from around the world, met all together once a month. The Board’s meetings were much more formal, and if Severus was honest, suited him more.

 

On the other side of the room, Minerva stood tall, clutching her hat in her hand, and was asking Colin Creevey how his devices were coming along and how his week had been. Colin was working on extra security systems for safe houses, a magical variation of a security camera, and he was enthusiastic as he explained that he had gotten all of the bugs sorted out and had five ready to go, patting his leather backpack affectionately, and planned to finish several more in the next week.

 

Neville sat silently, his mind far away. He couldn’t seem to stop separating himself from the group, even his lifelong friends, since his rescue from The Tower three months earlier. The lanky boy was all tense lines where he was resting in an armchair in a corner of the room. Everyone talked around him, chatting, laughing, but he tuned them out. He couldn’t feel anything, and while he knew that that should scare him, he couldn’t manage the fear either. He rested his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. He did feel tired. That was something, he supposed.

 

Severus rubbed his forehead wearily. It had been a long night and the meeting promised to be a headache. New to the Order, McLaggen was going to be difficult, and Molly and the twins weren’t going to be happy either.

 

The young hothead strolled through the open doorway, with Amelia and Susan Bones right behind. Victor Krum, Tonks, Nikolai Korsakov, Ginevra, Fred, George, Molly, Draco, Neville, Isa Bocelli and Septima Vector brought up the rear and began to gather around the magically-enlarged table.

 

Severus ignored the small talk as everyone finally took their seats. In the meantime, he waited for the rest of the senior members of the original Order to arrive.

 

Hagrid ducked under the door frame a minute later, out of breath, and there was a lively din while he was welcomed.

 

Finally, Aberforth and Kingsley trailed in, took the last two seats, and Severus glared around the table at them all, effectively shutting them up.

 

No one spoke.

 

 _ _That’s more like it,__  Severus thought.

 

“I have been continuing my research,” Severus began. He was not at all happy about the outcome. “Unfortunately, the potion that Voldemort wants is possible to create. I brewed it successfully last night. I will stall as long as possible, but we need to be prepared for the eventuality that there will come a day when the odds are stacked against us much more than they are now. Vector,” Severus withheld a sigh and made eye contact with the dark-haired witch a few feet away, “update us on the matrix.”

 

Severus took his seat and followed the dialogue as he mentally went over the inevitable outcome when the Dark Lord was given the Potion of the Empty Soul. It would make Voldemort’s progress with the Inferi look like child’s play. The potion acted as a Dementor’s Kiss, in a way, smothering the victim’s soul, but instead of leaving an empty vessel, the mind would remain. Victims would essentially lose everything that made them who they were, but would be perfect soldiers, willing to follow the Dark Lord in every way. No consciences to slow things down, no regret to turn their loyalty, no fear to hold them back. It made the hairs on the back of Severus’s neck stand up just thinking about what could happen.

 

He had been commissioned with the creation of the potion eighteen months ago and now that he had successfully stabilized the potion’s recipe, he could feel the remaining days ticking away. The Dark Lord was already impatient, and the only thing that could aid in a delay would be a distraction.

 

As if in direct correlation to his thoughts, Septima Vector’s summary was not encouraging, to say the least.

 

“The numbers have been inconsistent lately; that has been an issue for a few months now, but anonymous lines are complicating matters--”

 

“Anonymous?” Krum asked, his forehead crinkled.

 

“Sì,” Isa Bocelli, Septima Vector’s sister, answered. “It’s a peculiarity of Arithmancy; occasionally factors will show up in your equations when you don’t consciously add them. We’re knackered; the two of us have been up all week trying to figure out what or who they are and what the implications could be.”

 

“How many are there?” Molly asked.

 

Septima met Isa’s eyes and then squared her shoulders. “Four.”

 

Isa stood and joined her sister at the front of the room. “We are fairly certain now that each of these lines represents an individual person. And,” she paused, meeting Septima’s brown eyes in the low light, “we think that one of them is Severus.”

 

Severus’s brow furrowed. “I am already represented.”

 

“Ye-e-es,” Septima admitted and then paused. “But then, we made a startling discovery this morning. Your equation as it was is gone; and Isa made the connection that one of these new equations is almost identical to yours except for a few alterations, although...the line is now a completely different colour.”

 

Severus ignored the sharp stare from McGonagall and the many curious looks he was gathering from everyone, and frowned.

 

Septima pried, “Do you feel any different, Severus?”

 

He glowered at her and his temper rose when she smiled. “I find I am more irritated at the moment than I had been when I woke up this morning. And that’s saying something.”

 

Septima broke out into a grin. Confound that woman! What was with the teasing light in her eyes?

 

Isa watched him curiously. “Did you know, Severus, that only something truly monumental could cause the shade of your line to change? Much like when a wizard’s Patronus changes, this takes something very...integral to who you are.”

 

Severus froze.

 

After an interminable silence, Isa continued. “For example, falling in love...” but she stopped short at the black look on Severus’s face.

 

Titters travelled around the table.

 

 _ _Oh, right, hilarious,__  Severus thought. __That’s wonderful.__

 

“Wipe that smile off of your face this instant, Vector,” Severus hissed. “Idiotic women. Of course you wouldn’t consider that it means that I might be forced to drink an altering potion, one created by my own hand?” His hard eyes cut the two Arithmancers to the quick and they straightened, suitably chastened.

 

“Ah, right,” Septima eventually muttered, the playful light gone from her eyes. She and Isa had spent a happy few hours wondering who Severus might be destined for. There had been a bottle of wine involved, naturally, but now she saw quite clearly that they were reacting to the equation in the entirely wrong direction. “ _ _Porca vacca__ (Italian: ‘Holy cow’; literal translation: ‘pig cow’).”

 

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Indeed.” He cleared his throat and, deflated, Vector and Bocelli retook their seats.

 

His only physical response to the news was a sudden numbness in his hands. He flexed his fingers under the table and forced himself to sit up straight. He had schooled his features for so long that there was no visible reaction noticeable on his face, but inside, he felt sick. It must happen soon if it was already affecting the Arithmancy Matrix.

 

Silence reigned at the table for a time until McGonagall cleared her throat. “It is imperative, Severus, that you only deliver the potion after you’ve created a successful antidote.”

 

Severus nodded. Of course. He was already working on it.

 

The meeting was further derailed a moment later when McLaggen spoke up after several back-and-forth whispers with the twins, who he was sitting next to. “Do you mean to tell me that you’re going to turn traitor again, give away all of our secrets, and probably turn into He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s greatest weapon? And we’re just going to let you sit here?”

 

McLaggen’s outburst did not garner the reaction that he expected.

 

The table grew tense and quiet, and Cormac glared down the table at Snape, who met his gaze squarely, his stare colder than an Arctic gale. Cormac didn’t flinch, but many would have. Instead, his temper continued to rise and he almost shook in his chair from rage. The world had gone to hell and the Order was next, that was clear enough. Merlin, why did his timing have to be so ridiculously bad?

 

McGonagall looked down her glasses at McLaggen, her stern eyes making him sit up straighter than ever in his seat. “The circumstances are less than ideal, but Severus Snape is beyond reproach, even,” her eyes grew a bit hard, “from you. Where there is a problem, we will find the solution. We don’t toss people out like trash.” She paused. “Not even when their mouths work faster than their brains.” She spared a look at the Italian sisters, though it was not unkind, just of the reminding sort.

 

Cormac’s hands balled into fists under the table. How dare she! He barely heard her next words, but tried to focus around the red that was encroaching upon his vision.

 

“Perhaps now would be a good time to assign our new junior members?”

 

“Indeed.” Severus paused and his hard gaze upon McLaggen turned reflective and he had to repress a smirk. These meetings were the bane of his existence, this was true enough, but they had their moments. He was going to enjoy this. “Shall we start with our outspoken champion for the cause himself? McLaggen, you will join Victor Krum and Colin Creevey at Safe House Four. Your duties will include scouting, rescue operations, as well as caring for those refugees under Number Four’s roof.” Severus ignored the look of contempt that McLaggen was throwing Creevey’s way and turned towards the twins. He should have separated them a hundred years ago. “Fred, you are joining Number Four’s team as well.” The twins started and began to protest, but Severus cut them off. “I expect the four of you to work together fluidly as a team. Krum and Creevey are in charge. They’ll guide you through the particulars after the meeting.” He turned to the other Weasley twin. They were staring at him with identical looks of alarm on their freckled faces. “George, you will be joining Safe House Three, working alongside Longbottom, McGonagall, and Miss Lovegood. Report to McGonagall in regards to your new duties.” Severus withheld a sigh at the glowering looks aimed in his direction. The twins had almost bungled several rescue missions because they wouldn’t focus on the task alone when they worked together. Enough was enough. “Ginevra, I expect you to step up and take over the Messrs. Weasley’s duties here at Number Two. Report to me after the meeting and we’ll go over specifics.” At the youngest Weasley’s nod, Severus stood. There was only so much meeting that he could take. “If that is all?”

 

* * *

 

Cormac pushed away from the table, a growl building in his throat as he unfolded his long body, a fierce scowl highlighting his features. He was burning up. He began to unbutton the top few buttons of his shirt and began dividing his way through the small crowd towards the front door.

 

They couldn’t really expect him to work with that lot! Cormac’s face, red with his growing temper, darkened as he glared around at the congregated group, though he didn’t bother making eye contact with anyone. What a ragtag group of imbeciles.

 

Colin Creevey, as short and as bubbly as he had always been, bounced over to Cormac with a wide grin. “Hi, Cormac! I didn’t get a chance to say hello to you earlier. It’s good to see you!” Colin ignored Cormac’s baleful and affronted stare and continued on blissfully. “I am looking forward to working together. You’ll like the house. How have you been? How is your family? Has...” Colin paused, a flicker of hurt appearing on his expressive face as Cormac turned and stalked off, ignoring both him and his rapid-fire questions.

 

 _ _Er, well, maybe he’s having a bad day,__  Colin thought amicably and turned towards Krum, who was standing nearby. “Hello, Viktor. Have you had a good day? I know you’ve been very busy.”

 

Krum nodded at Colin, looking over his shoulder at McLaggen, who had thrown open the door and gone outside into the bitter wind (one would presume to cool off). McLaggen was yanking on the collar of his shirt and undoing the buttons on his shirt sleeves, rolling them up to his elbows. He looked to be growling under his breath. Krum’s eyes narrowed. “Vat one iz goingz tzo be trouble,” he muttered, feeling a tension headache building.

 

Colin looked over his shoulder and out the window to where McLaggen was pacing across the yard, his face stormy at best. “He’s not so bad.”

 

Krum snorted. “Creevey, vu vould think vat Voldemort iz not so vad.”

 

Colin grinned, teasing. “I am sure he has his good days and his bad days.”


	14. Chapter 13: Life on the Streets

 

****Chapter warnings: violence, implied intent of non-consensual sex from a gang member, and death. Nothing graphic, but I don’t want to leave it without a warning. The cursing is pretty strong (for me) in that bit as well.** **

****

ALLERFORD, SOMERSET, ENGLAND

__Meanwhile...._ _

__

Hermione stood stock still in the kitchen, where she had been washing dishes. The doorbell rang again.

 

“Hello! Hello?” an old, trembly voice called out.

 

Christie left the bathroom, drying his hands on a hand towel as he approached the front door. His bright sea-green eyes met Hermione’s startled ones as he passed by the archway leading into the kitchen. Then he was out of her sight and, she realized with rising panic, answering the door.

 

“Mrs. Chaikin! Mrs. Schultz!” Christie exclaimed warmly, stepping back. “Let’s get ye in oyt av dis nasty weather. Waaat brings yer ‘ere?” Christie led them into the kitchen, enthusiastically stomping the snow off of his heavy boots and blithely ignoring Hermione’s panicked and imploring eyes.

 

“Welll, hello there, dear!” one of the old ladies cried as she noticed Hermione at the sink. “You must be Christie’s niece, Brigidette!” The two ladies convened around Hermione and started shaking her hand after she hastily dried her hands off on a hand towel, asking her how she was enjoying their small corner of Somerset.

 

“Oh, er,” Hermione paused, staring around, a bemused expression on her face, “it’s lovely, of course. I am enjoying it here very much.” She smiled, but her gaze fell sharp upon Christie, full of warning, and he chuckled, clearly enjoying himself.

 

“We were very sorry to hear about your parents, dearie,” little old lady on the right said, her blue, blue eyes staring at Hermione from beneath her large-framed glasses.

 

Hermione managed to make small talk for a few minutes, shooting warning glances in Christie’s direction every chance she got, and when the two were situated at the kitchen table awaiting a cup of tea, Hermione snagged Christie’s shirt as he tried to make his way around her. Turning her back on the little old ladies, Hermione laid the full force of her darkest scowl on Christie’s unrepentant face and hissed under her breath, “Brigidette?!”

 

Christie waggled his eyebrows at her, grinning all the while. “Aye, lass, a simple name doesn’t suit ye,” he whispered. “Shall Oi make de tay?” he asked after a moment, gesturing to the teapot held aloft in her hand.

 

Hermione huffed. “Never mind. I’ll make it.” And she shooed him away. Hermione shook her head. Christie was too precocious by half. She couldn’t help but smile the tiniest smile, though.

 

Someone was bound to come over at some point or see her through a window; it was better to have a story in place, it was true. But, Merlin, she would have appreciated it if he had warned her. She shook her head again and sighed, then turned around with a smile as the teapot started whistling.

 

She and Christie were going to have a _ _little talk__  later.

 

* * *

 

THE EASTER N  SEABOARD, UNITED STATES

 __The_ _ __day_ _ __before Sam, Beth, and Toot’s disappearance_ _ __..._ _

__

Tonks reapplied her Disillusionment charm and edged around the corner of what used to be Newbury Street in Boston, Massachusetts. The once beautiful shopping district was unrecognisable.

 

She and Nikolai were here to report upon the situation and to find appropriate avenues for safe houses. The northern seaboard states were deserted, inasmuch as they had been able to find, but rumours of the gang activity stretching from Boston to New York City and in Washington D.C. had reached the Order.

 

“Zis is exerrrcise in madness,” Nikolai whispered from a few steps ahead.

 

“Shh,” Tonks admonished, catching up to him and bumping into him in the process. “Oh! Sorry.” Tonks brushed his shoulder off and looked around, watching the interaction on the street with contemplative eyes. Teenagers loitered around various burning trash barrels, laughing and rough-housing. The buildings that were still standing were clear-cut territories; the oldest kids were posted outside as some kind of sentinel, keeping anyone who didn’t belong at a healthy distance. When lines were crossed, things got ugly. Tonks flinched as one boy, maybe thirteen or so, was walking by a nearby house and made eye contact with the kid sitting on the porch steps. He must have taken the eye contact as a challenge; in the next second, the sentinel was on his feet, his face twisted with menace, and the boy almost fell backward, tripping in his rush to get away.

 

Trash lined the streets. Tonks was afraid to look at anything too close. The smell was overwhelming. Sour, like spoiled milk and rancid meat. Tonks had seen a lot in the past few years, but this was more than she could bear. All these kids. She searched for and found Nikolai’s hand and held on for a long moment.

 

Everywhere she looked, it was the same. Undernourished teenagers, some with hard glints in their eyes and others with beaten expressions and distant gazes, as if they weren’t active participants in their own lives.

 

It was too much.

 

But. She steeled her shoulders. If these kids could live it, she could bear to witness it.

 

She wanted to wrap her arms around them all and take them home.

 

When Tonks and Nikolai came across a group of scantily-dressed girls, Tonks had to swallow back the rising bile in her throat. “I can’t—” She gasped, choking on the putrid air. After a tense minute, she whispered, “This is so much worse than I expected it to be.”

 

Nikolai squeezed her hand and led her towards what appeared, at first glance, to be a deserted alley, so that they could Apparate away.

 

A distant voice. “Oooh, she thinks she’s so tough.” A low laugh.

 

“Holy hell on toast, the smell.”

 

“Divers always smell rank, Toon. But doesn’t matter, does it, sweetheart? Not for what I’ve got in mind.”

 

Tonks, alarmed, pressed forward, towards the sound of confrontation. She couldn’t let someone get hurt, not when she could do something to stop it.

 

Tonks and Nikolai both paused when they reached the deepest end of the alley and the sight that met them there.

 

A small girl, maybe seventeen, with short dark hair, was facing three lanky teen boys. But, the girl, whoever she was, didn’t look scared. Something in her eyes froze Tonks in her tracks.

 

The tallest boy, maybe the most self-assured, reached forward and tucked a strand of the girl’s hair behind her ear.

 

She flinched back. “Don’t touch me.” She growled the words. When he only grinned and stepped closer, burying his hand in her hair with the obvious intent of going in for a forced kiss, there was a flurry of sudden movement—and then he dropped to the ground.

 

Tonks wasn’t sure what had happened, not until the girl held a knife out and tilted her head at the other two, who were staring from her to their friend convulsing and then stilling, in shock.

 

One made to throw himself at her, but the other gripped him hard around the shoulders and pulled him back. He struggled, finally throwing him off, and barreled towards the girl.

 

She sidestepped and he went careening towards the alley wall before he turned with a flushed and outraged expression on his face.

 

“Is that the best you can do?” the girl taunted, and he lunged towards her, but, anticipating his move, she averted his attack.

 

“I’m going to kill you, princess.”

 

“You’re going to have to catch me first.” She took a few steps back, drawing him further from his friend, who was staring down at his fallen gang member, nudging his side with his bare toe as if he could wake him up.

 

Tonks stared, open-mouthed, as the scene played out before her. She didn’t know what horrified her more: the depravity of the streets, the casual, thinly veiled threats of rape, or the dead look in so many of these kids’ eyes.

 

The girl waited for him to make his next move and when he did, she took the blow, but delivered one of her own, kneeing him as hard as she could in the groin. She then kicked against his chest, sending him sprawling onto his back. Standing over him, her back to Tonks and Nikolai where they remained hidden, she looked down at the boy in contempt. “Do you like hitting girls, you pathetic coward?” Her voice dropped an octave, “Sometimes girls hit back.” She kicked the ground next to him, scattering a few rocks, then turned away from him as he groaned. Raising her hood, she headed towards the street. She paused next to the other gang member, meeting his eyes with her dispassionate gaze. He looked away after a moment and she made a quick escape.

 

Tonks made to follow her, and Nikolai grabbed her hand, trying to restrain her, but Tonks was quick when she wanted to be and she freed herself, giving him a sharp jab with her elbow to his gut. As Nikolai grunted in frustration, she skipped away after the girl who was turning the corner and heading out of view.

 

“Impossible voman,” Nikolai muttered under his breath.

 

A light chuckle drifted back to him from the mouth of the alley, causing him to smile, and he hastened to catch up.

 

* * *

 

NEAR GAIRLOCH, HIGHLANDS, SCOTLAND

__Back to the story’s present...._ _

__

If there was one thing that Colin Creevey could not stand, it was condescension. He could stomach almost anything else.

 

Draco Bloody Malfoy was driving him crazy.

 

Colin stared over Draco’s shoulder, his face impassive, which was, all things told, odd for him.

 

“It won’t be a problem, will it?” Draco asked, referring to his request (demand) for another security camera for his mother, who was currently residing in a safe house in the Swiss Alps.

 

“I’ll get right on it,” Colin answered in clipped tones. He began walking away, wondering why he hadn’t sent someone else to retrieve a few months’ worth of Pepperup Potion and Calming and Sleeping Draughts for the safe house.

 

Draco stared after him, a startled expression on his face. He didn’t interact with little Colin much, but the kid had never been outright rude to him before. Dismissing it, Draco continued on his way out the door, mentally preparing to face his father and all of the trials of the Dark Tower.

 

He strode outside and closed his eyes, concentrating on the pull of his dark mark as he Apparated away.

 

* * *

 

THE DARK TOWER, UNPLOTTABLE

__Meanwhile...._ _

_ _

Jeh knelt on the cold floor in front of the fire, closing her eyes. The light from the flames reflected in a dizzying dance upon her long sheet of black hair. She began clearing her mind.

 

“Yessss, my queen. We will be successful this time.” Lord Voldemort’s encouragement came out in a low hiss and the goddess kneeling at his side allowed a silent, mocking smile in reply.

 

The heat of the fire fed her desperation and Jeh’s consciousness drifted, travelling through the dream-world. Landscapes flashed one after another before her until she reached her destination.

 

Ahriman. She could feel him. The heart in her chest beat faster as her spirit walked through a vast subterranean chamber. The walls around her pulsed and thrummed and she let her hand brush against the wall closest to her, enjoying the sensation of its bitter cold weight, its dust and grit.

 

There was no light and yet she had no trouble seeing ahead.

 

How many times had she come here? How many times had she failed? It mattered not, because she would never stop trying.

 

The centre of the cavern rose above her, its momentous bell-shaped space as awe-inspiring as the first time that she journeyed deep within her master’s resting place. The room was hundreds of feet across and black as pitch, but in her spirit form she was not hindered by human sight.

 

 _ _Master__. Black flames licked up and around his confined body, burning her even from a distance.

 

Her spirit flew forward; one second she stood in the opening of the cavern and the next she was kneeling at Ahriman’s side. Jeh cried out in agony as she gripped and sliced at the chains, trying to break him free in a futile effort once again. She needed to be with her king. She couldn’t bear to wait any longer!

 

The pain was unlike anything she had ever experienced in any of her forms, and again, it was too much.

 

As she was flung back to reality, the answer came to her in a flash of sudden certainty.

 

Lord Voldemort was shaking in rage at her repeated failure, but Jeh rose to her feet in a fluid gesture and touched his hand, smiling at him, causing him to pause. “My Lord, I know now what to do.” Her bright cobalt blue eyes contrasted beautifully with the nutmeg shade of her skin as her smile widened and her face lit up with the joy of her discovery. “A sacrifice is needed. A sacrifice of the purest blood.”

 

 ****A/N: Persian mythology. :D This was my beta’s idea and I owe this** ** ****plot-line**** ** **entirely** ** ****to him. Davros Fan, you are** ** **_**_awesome_ ** _ ** ****. I also want to acknowledge the fact that he helped to write the segment with Jeh and Ahriman’s chamber and everything, and some of what he sent me when we were discussing that part I used almost word for word, with his permission, because I loved it so much. Thank you for reading!** **


	15. 14: The Catacombs

****

__“I used to think the past was dead and gone,_ _

__But I was wrong, so wrong....”_ _

****

THE TOWER, UNPLOTTABLE

__Flashback:_ _ __about_ _ __a year_ _ __before rescue_ _

__

Neville wondered, not for the first time, if he was going crazy. Like his parents. Enduring the Cruciatus Curse every day was hard enough, but the knowledge of what it could do to him forever sat like a cannonball in his stomach. Bellatrix, especially, was relentless and seemed to have made it her personal mission in life to drive him to that manic end. The pain was interspersed with questions, always the questions, but Neville didn’t know the answers. He wondered sometimes if the pain would stop if he could give them the information that they sought. It was a good thing that he didn’t know anything, he decided, because he was very afraid that he would have cracked otherwise.

 

Time meant little to him, everything was just...endless...but one day, his captors hauled him up and pushed him roughly out of his solitary cell. Neville shuffled his feet, his head down as he moved awkwardly. The light from the flaming sconces along the hallway hurt his eyes and he struggled forward. He didn’t recognize the Death Eater grumbling at his side nor the one prodding him along, but he didn’t waste any thoughts on them. It took every ounce of willpower he had to put one foot in front of the other. When they reached their destination, one of the robed men opened the heavy iron door, pushed Neville in, and then shut the door behind him with a loud clang.

 

Neville was no longer in a dark cell. And he was no longer alone.

 

He stared around at the small groups of people lining the walls. Some of them stared back at him curiously, but many didn’t notice his sudden presence. Bemused, and still blinking against the painful light that was emanating from lit sconces in the large cell, Neville forced himself to look around. A few moments later, however, his legs gave out on him and he ended up in an undignified heap on the cold flagstone floor.

 

He leaned his head back against the door, his eyes closed, and fought against his body’s urge to fade into the promise of sleep.

 

A girl crept over. “Merta, do you still have some water?” she called out to a middle-aged prisoner with a salt-and-pepper braid down her back.

 

“ _ _Tak__  (Polish: ‘yes’), yes, I do.” Merta approached and handed over her cup, which had a few sips of cool water left.

 

The girl, Charlotte, or as most people called her, Charlie, studied the young man’s face with concern. He was chalky white under the heavy growth of his beard, his lips were cracked and bleeding, and he had deep purple bruises under his eyes from exhaustion. She started when he opened his eyes, but then smiled gently. “Here, have some water.”

 

He grasped the cup eagerly though clumsily and she helped him to hold it.

 

“Where am I?” he rasped after sipping the cool water, savouring its icy path across his tongue and down his throat.

 

“This is a sort of commune for outcasts, I suppose,” Charlie answered, “though really we’re all just survivors. When they move on to newer prisoners, anyone left they’re tired of gets shuffled in a room like this; if they don’t just kill you, that is. The stronger you are, the more useful you are to them,” she added, her tone bitter, “so they keep us alive.”

 

Neville closed his eyes, relief flooding his senses, making him dizzy. “Thank you,” he mumbled before he drifted off to sleep, “for the water.”

 

* * *

 

“Up! Up, you worthless filth!”

 

The sharp insult cut into the edges of Neville’s consciousness and he tried to open his eyes. His body reacted to the sound out of pure instinct, flinching back against the wall and rising to his feet before he had even managed to blink a few times. He swayed a bit and someone stood close to him, helping to support him and keep him upright.

 

“One bowl each and then it’s back to the mines with you lot.”

 

No sound met this order besides the shuffling of feet and the choking down of a gruel that would be more aptly named cruel. Neville blinked down at the bowl that someone handed him before tilting it into his waiting mouth. He didn’t even taste it as he swallowed the lumpy mess down. His stomach protested very audibly when there was not even close to enough in the bowl to satisfy his hunger pains. Several people were licking their bowls clean around him, and with no dignity left to speak of, Neville proceeded to do the same.

 

“We’ll get a bit of bread later,” the girl at his elbow reassured him.

 

“Where are we going?” Neville asked in a whisper, wary of the Death Eater standing in the doorway with a bored expression on his face. There were very few things more dangerous than a bored Death Eater, Neville knew.

 

“Well－” the girl started to answer, but the Death Eater at the front started hustling people out the door.

 

Neville tried to get in the middle of the line, to make himself less conspicuous, but he was shoved back and elbowed in his ribs several times. Giving up, he filed out towards the end. The girl and an older woman stood behind him, bringing up the very rear.

 

The line of prisoners followed the lead Death Eater as quietly as possible, no one wanting to incur any wrath. Neville felt the hairs on his neck standing up as another Death Eater followed behind, only a few steps away from him.

 

The path was only lit intermittently. The single-file line ahead of him moved at an even pace. They had probably walked this route every day. Neville tried to keep up.

 

The trek seemed to take forever and Neville’s energy was flagging long before they reached their destination. He forced his feet forward, mindful of the Death Eater a few steps behind him. He could not turn back and he could not stop; there was only forward and whatever it held. As they continued to descend into the dark, Neville stumbled a bit and a gentle hand rested on his elbow, offering him support. Neville didn’t have to look to know that it was Charlotte. He swallowed, his throat feeling thick, and then took a steadying breath as they continued down the corridor.

 

It was easier once they passed through an antechamber and began to descend a massive, winding staircase. It put Neville in mind of Dumbledore’s office, but he fought that thought back. It did no good to think about anything from...before.

 

The sight that met him in the depths of The Tower took Neville’s breath away.

 

What had to be miles of well-lit tunnels snaked this way and that, in every direction. A large group of people were gathering at the bottom of the winding stairs, their shift complete, waiting to go back up, back to their cell.

 

“Welcome to the catacombs,” Charlotte told him with a wince and a smile, handing him a pickaxe. “C’mon.” She nodded to the older lady at her side with the salt-and-pepper braid.

 

Neville followed the two of them, questions racing through his mind at a dizzying speed.

 

* * *

 

ALLERFORD, SOMERSET, ENGLAND

__Back to 2001_ _

 

Hermione couldn’t sleep, and after tossing and turning for a few hours, she finally gave it up and decided to spend a little time reading until she felt drowsy. Christie had several bookcases and the variety was fascinating to Hermione. You could tell a lot about a person from their library, she had always believed that, and Christie’s book collection was just as quirky and interesting as he was. It ranged from a large selection of Louis L’Amour, then a broad range of science fiction and fantasy novels and mysteries, some classic literature such as Dickens, and what had really touched her heart, the well-worn books that had been his wife’s collection of Jane Austen, the Brontës, L.M. Montgomery and Louisa May Alcott. He had admitted that he actually read a few of them every year to feel close to her. And then there were nature handbooks on everything from mushrooms to wildflowers, birds, and fish, and a few books on astronomy had caught her eye, as well as biographies and non-fiction about interesting time periods of history. It was a good collection, and Hermione was a little amused to find that after picking up a mystery for the first time in what felt like a hundred years, she was hooked.

 

All of the books were great, though, and she read a little bit of everything at random bits throughout the day, but especially at night as she retired to bed. There was something so indulgent about burrowing into the covers with a good book, the table lamp on, relaxing against your pillows, reading. It was almost like therapy for her. Her emotional scars, she suspected, would always be there, but she was working through the trauma at her own pace.

 

Having the opportunity to be useful, to be able to relax, to feel safe...it was a tremendous thing, what Christie had done for her.

 

* * *

 

Later, more awake than ever, Hermione gave up and walked through the house as quietly as she could so that she wouldn’t wake Christie and headed towards the kitchen. She nicked a scone she had made earlier in the day from the bread box and carefully carried the laptop into the living room, settling in on the couch. When turned on, the laptop’s black screen faded to blue and the Windows XP logo appeared for a few seconds before fading into the traditional open grass and sky background. Hermione absently started the connection process while she flipped through the pages of her notebook and took a small bite of the hickory-crusted scone.

 

She signed into the forum and only scrolled for a few seconds when her eyes caught on a new thread. Her eyes widened and her pulse quickened as she hovered the mouse’s arrow over the title: RECRUITMENT – INTERVIEWS – TESTS.

 

This was exactly what she had not been allowing herself to hope for, a chance to make her way into the inner circle and really make a difference, but she couldn’t help feeling a little anxious. Hermione sat for several seconds and then set the laptop on the coffee table so that she could make a cuppa to calm her sudden nerves.

 

The soft tread of her socks led her into the well-lit confines of the kitchen. She paced between the refrigerator to the stove a few times, gathering a mug, honey, and a spoon. She drummed her fingers on the counter as she waited for the water to boil. Her thoughts were racing through her head. If she passed the interviews and tests, whatever they were, then there was a chance that she could possibly find someone from her past...and maybe even find out what happened to the Weasleys. Suddenly, as the whistle broke through the fog of her thoughts, she realized that the water was boiling and hurriedly moved the small kettle off of the burner, hoping she hadn’t just woken Christie.

 

Chamomile tea had always been a favourite of hers and she was grateful to Christie for buying her a small tin of it at the shop about a week ago. She readied the tea and added a bit of honey, then headed back to the living room. Blowing back the steam, Hermione cradled the cup with two hands and closed her eyes, leaning back against the couch cushions. There was no question of whether she could do this; she simply must. Might as well get on with it, her inner-voice nudged her, and she took a deep breath.

 

After a small sip, she set the cup a safe distance from the laptop and clicked on the thread. Immediately, a small window popped up with a short disclaimer which read: ‘Working with the rebels directly could potentially put you or your family’s lives in danger. Only click continue if you accept the risk involved.’

 

There was no hesitation for Hermione as she clicked on the arrow to take her forward. A shimmering line of dots, indicating a loading window, replaced the statement in the window and four minutes dragged by as the dots continued to fade in and out in a loop.

 

When she had reached the bottom of her cup and eaten almost all of her scone, the window went completely white, and then an exclamation point popped up on the bottom of the small window, indicating an incoming private message.

 

Ignoring the fact that her fingers suddenly felt weak and shaky, Hermione resolutely clicked on the minimized PM window and bit her bottom lip as it opened to reveal an inquiry from Asphodel.

 

****Asphodel:** ** ****What tools and/or skills could you offer?** **

 

Hermione’s brows raised a bit, but she didn’t hesitate in reply in case they tired of waiting on her and moved on to someone else.

 

****M** ** ****elchisedec:** ** ****Strategy and planning.** **

****

Thirty seconds passed in high anxiety for Hermione.

****

****Asphodel: Is that all?** **

****

Panicking, thinking that she was about to lose this opportunity, Hermione typed in a rush.

****

****Melchisedec: It’s not much, but I honestly feel like I could be an asset.** **

****

****Asphodel: You’re right, it’s not much.** **

****

Hermione blinked a few times, her temper starting to rise. They didn’t have to be so rude. She struggled with what to say. What could she say to make them take an interest in her? She didn’t even have a wand. She was barely an asset to herself at the moment.

****

****Melchisedec: Wait, please.** **

****Melchisedec: I realize this isn’t the right way to go about this, but I am desperate to find the Order. I’ve just recently gotten on my feet. I spent years trying to make it to The Burrow, only to find it destroyed. I just, I need to know if any of the Weasleys are still out there. And, I want to help. Everyone seems to think that I’m dead and I don’t know how to contact anyone; I’ve been without my wand since the Last Battle and it seemed foolhardy to break in and use someone’s floo. I don’t know if the secret-kept houses are still safe or not.** **

 

Hermione waited for a reply, gnawing on her bottom lip in anxiety.

 

****Asphodel: I feel a headache coming on.** **

****

Hermione snorted inelegantly through her nose and was about to reply, when another message popped up.

 

****Asphodel: Dare I even ask? Who is this? If you’re wasting my time, rest assured that you’ll be banned from the boards.** **

 

Hermione took a deep, steadying breath.

 

****Melchisedec: Hermione Granger.** **

****Melchisedec: Did you know me? I was captured and held prisoner with Harry Potter.** **

 

Typing Harry’s name hurt. Hermione closed her eyes tightly for a moment. Thirty seconds passed, and then forty, and Hermione was about to say something else, anything, really, when the window closed.

 

Hermione stared, puzzled, then jumped up from the couch, dropping the laptop onto the cushion, when someone started pounding on the front door. Each loud __thump, thump, thump,__  seemed to go right through her. She made it as far as the dark entry hall, but heavy anxiety was closing in on her, making her breathless and wooden. She fought it and took another step, but then Christie turned his bedroom light on and poked his head out of his door, grinning cheekily at her.

 

He waggled his eyebrows. “Expectin’ company, lass?”

 

Hermione shook her head minutely, a lump of fear in her throat. She didn’t know who Asphodel was, but she didn’t have a good feeling about this at all.

 

Christie disappeared from his doorway and returned a few seconds later, shuffling into a robe, and headed straight for the door. Hermione’s knees knocked, but she stepped toward him as best as she could, reaching out. “No, Christie! Don’t—!”

 

Ignoring her, Christie swung the door open, then stepped back, in alarm or awe, it was hard to tell, backing away slowly.

 

At three in the morning, it was still very dark outside－the tall silhouette framed in the doorway was darker still. Hermione sludged forward, forcing her limbs to react. She felt like she was in a nightmare.

 

A hand reached out and grasped Christie around the neck, gripping tight, and a harsh, raw voice accosted the room. “Are you the one pretending to be her?”

 

The deep thrum of his familiar voice hit Hermione right in the gut and she stared at the scene before her in shock and disbelief. “No!” she finally cried, reaching them at last, and pulled fruitlessly at his arm, willing him to loosen his vise-like grip. “Let him go!”

 

Christie slipped down along the wall to the floor in a boneless heap.

 

The air crackled and popped around Hermione. Her eyes met with those of Professor Snape.

 

He took a faltering step back. “Miss-Miss Granger?” His eyes were wide and a little wild. He stared at her, and for the first time in her life, Hermione saw naked emotion on his face. His distress made her uneasy. He stepped back until the wall met his back and slumped down the panelling slowly, resting on the arches of his feet, his elbows on his knees, his hand and black hair obscuring the lost expression on his face.

 

Breathing heavily, Hermione turned her back on her former professor and knelt down. “Are you all right, Christie?” Her hands were shaking, but she used them to gently smooth away the bangs from Christie’s eyes. He was staring over her shoulder, and much to her consternation, a grin suddenly lit up his face. Christie glanced at her, winked, and jumped to his feet, light as a bounding deer.

 

Hermione stood back and shook her head, a rising flush staining her cheeks. She turned around reluctantly. Professor Snape was all broad shoulders and black—everywhere. She closed her eyes; it hurt to look upon him. Asphodel. With a world-weary sigh, she sidestepped around the curious Christie and shut the front door.

 

Severus’s shoulders went rigid and his face rose at once, and then, suddenly, he was on his feet. “What the devil is going on here?” His voice was hoarse and even cracked a bit at the end. He cleared his throat and gazed at her, beseeching, unable or perhaps unwilling to look away.

 

* * *

 

****A/N:** ** ****Lyrics at the beginning of this chapter are from** ** **_**_I Was Broken_ ** _ ** ****by Marcus Foster. *This is** ** **_**_the_ ** _ ** ****song for this fic. The lyrics are perfect. **Okay, I have to mention** ** **_**_Unsteady_ ** _ ** ****by X Ambassadors and pretty much every song ever written by Imagine Dragons. :) Just, you know, in case anyone is wondering what my playlist consists of while working on** ** **_**_Dismantle the Sun._ ** _ ** ****Music is the power behind this writer, that is for sure. That, and comments/reviews! (You saw that coming, right? I know. I’m shameless, lol.)** **


	16. 15: Asphodel

_“It’s gotta get easier and easier somehow  
_ __But not today, not today...”_ _

ALLERFORD, SOMERSET, ENGLAND

__Continued_ _

Hermione stared up at her former professor, still breathing hard. He was breathing roughly through his nose and his face was as white as a sheet.

__Asphodel. Professor Snape. One of the leading rebels._ _

__And yet, he hadn’t tried to help_ _ __me_ _ __._ _

The overwhelming, crushing wave of abandonment surfaced, knocking the wind out of her all over again. A bit light-headed and increasingly dizzy, Hermione drew in air as fast as she could. Her ears started ringing and her vision clouded.

Christie gripped her under her arm and led her down the hallway, towards the living room, all the while looking over his shoulder, intense curiosity written all over his vibrant face. “Slow down yer breath, wane (child). In through yer nose and oyt through yer mouth. Slowly, nigh. Ahh, ‘ere.” Christie helped Hermione onto the glider and handed her a pillow.

Hermione leaned her head down, holding the pillow in her lap, resting her forehead on it. She tried to breathe correctly. The tell-tale burning in her throat and eyes threatened, though she was desperate to hold the tears at bay. When Christie settled a warm, crocheted throw over her shoulders, hot tears trickled out, scalding her cheeks. Hermione pulled the pillow closer, one trembling hand covering her eyes, and as the fringe of the handmade throw tickled the back of her neck, the tears came faster and faster, flooding out of her.

* * *

Christie squeezed her shoulder in comfort and then he retreated quietly, sensing her need for privacy.

Christie approached the tall man still standing in the hall, his curiosity growing by the second. His curiosity had always been stronger than his caution (his wife would have said ‘good sense’, but that’s neither here nor there). Christie’s first impression was that this man could be as dangerous as he was powerful, though he sensed that they were in no danger from him, the initial attack aside.

Christie was bouncing on his toes, full of excited energy. He’d always wanted to meet a rebel.

Christie offered him tea.

The man continued to stare down the hall, and then with a short, barely perceptible jerk, he turned towards Christie with a nod.

They entered the kitchen and, noting the kettle of tea already on the stove, Christie peeked inside. It was still warm, so he turned the burner up a bit to get it hot, then selected a few mugs from the hooks spread out along the bottom of his cabinets. “What yisser name, stranger?” Christie asked, turning back around, leaning back against the stove. He offered an amiable smile.

The man inclined his head and leaned back against the wall a bit, crossing his arms. “Severus Snape, Mr...?”

“Ye can call me Christie, Christie Barclay.”

“How...?” He gestured helplessly towards the living room.

Christie nodded and rolled his shoulders. “Tis complicated, ter be sure. Oi nu (I know) only bits an’ pieces, meself. Say, ‘ow de ye nu ‘erminey?”

Mister Snape let out a long, weary sigh. “I was her professor for seven years. That...was a long time ago.” He paused, accepting the steaming mug from Christie with a nod. “How in Merlin did she end up here?”

Christie perched on his favourite stool, leaning back a bit with his feet crossed on the stool in front of him (something he’d perfected due to long practice), and blew back the steam rising from his mug. “She don’t let on much aboyt all she’s been through. From wat Oi ‘av gathered, de lass walked from Scotland. Foun’ wan (one) av ‘er hideouts aboyt two months back.”

* * *

Severus’s arms unfolded and he pushed away from the wall. “She’s only been here for two months,” he repeated, startled. He lifted his mug of tea and took a careful sip, trying to digest that bit of information. It was hard to think straight; his mind was still reeling from finding Miss Granger alive, and exhaustion wasn’t helping. His eyes had felt like sandpaper all day. He’d had to rely on Invigoration Draughts too much these past several years and they didn’t do much for him now.

The old man across from him, his hair sticking out in every direction, his fingers interlaced over his abdomen as he tilted back on his stool a few more inches, began to elaborate a bit, explaining that she had been on her own for years. Christie paused, shaking his head. “She’s come a long way, she ‘as. She was a sadder sight than de wild ‘orse (horse) of Tartary.”

“Has she said...the Tower....” Severus’s brows were drawn together tightly as he put together what he remembered with the revelation that Miss Granger was alive. “Lucius.” The name was a curse under his breath. He pushed away from the wall and started to pace. “Son of a warlock!” He continued to stalk back and forth in agitation.

* * *

It took Hermione a few minutes to get her emotions back under control and by that point she felt weak and shaky, wrung out. She stood up and headed towards the bathroom, unsteady on her feet. She blew her nose, splashed cold water on her face, and stared blankly at her reflection in the mirror, not seeing herself but the tall, dark form of her professor who had showed up at her door.

It took her five whole minutes to work up the courage to face him and it was only the pull of the news he might have about the Weasleys and everyone else that propelled her out of the bathroom. She found them in the kitchen, Professor Snape leaning against the south wall, scowling as darkly as ever. Christie was perched on a bar stool with a playful light in his eyes, as at ease as anyone could possibly be in the company of such a man.

Christie nodded at her as she stepped over the threshold and into the bright light of the kitchen. The strength of Snape’s gaze caused her to miss a step, and she almost stumbled. Reaching the dining table at last, Hermione sunk down onto a seat with little grace.

After several seconds of taut silence, Christie hopped up and approached with her reheated cup of tea, setting it before her before taking the seat to her left. He indicated with a wave of his hand to Snape that he should take the chair opposite.

A moment passed in silence, but then the chair moved with the barest scrape against the hardwood floor and Snape sat without a word. Hermione stared rigidly at the vinyl tablecloth-covered tabletop, a million traitorous questions on the tip of her tongue.

Hermione’s shoulders slumped as she cast a quick, furtive glance up at her former professor. He was staring at her. She pulled her cup of tea closer and took several small sips, breathing in the comforting aroma. Finally, she asked, “Please, the Weasleys?”

Hermione closed her eyes when he started to answer. Just like before, his voice cut right through her, but she held on to every precious name that he listed off like a lifeline.

“Mrs. Weasley, the twins, and Miss Weasley are all safe.” Hermione sucked in a sharp breath and wrapped her fingers tightly around her cup. All of her worrying, and Ginny was okay. She exhaled shakily. Snape continued, “There are others. Mr. Longbottom was recently rescued. Tonks and Hagrid are both well. There’s Professors McGonagall, Vector, and Sprout; Kingsley, and...and Draco. That is about—”

“Really?” Hermione cut in. “Dra-Draco? He’s alive?” She looked up and met his gaze.

“Draco’s alive.”

Hermione nodded, confused but relieved. Several emotions warred within. So few left. They were all so dear to her, intense joy for those who remained was muddled by the intense pain for those who were lost. She leaned forward and rested her elbow on the table, resting her cheek on the palm of her hand.

“Tis time for ye ter hit de ‘ay (hay), lassie.”

Hermione shook her head, which she suddenly realized felt extremely heavy and clouded. Suspicion welled up within her and she glared as well as she could at her former professor’s stoic face. “Did you...? Un...be...lieve....” Her head lowered down to the table, laying upon her outstretched arm, and within seconds, she was breathing deeply.

* * *

Christie sat back and stretched, a satisfied smile on his face. “Tanks (Thanks) kindly, Mister Snape. She needs de rest. She’ll forgive us－er, eventually.”

Severus stared down at Miss Granger, her short curls and fluttering eyelashes arresting his gaze.

Christie stood up, dusting off his hands. “Welp, Oi ought ter git ‘er ter ‘er room. If’n she sleeps loike dat all noight, she’ll ‘av a creck (crick) in ‘er neck.”

Snape stood up abruptly and held out one hand. “There’s no need. Allow me.” Pulling his wand out of his sleeve, he gently Levitated Miss Granger and guided her towards the hallway. He looked over his shoulder at Christie Barclay, who was watching with an animated expression on his face. “Which room is hers?” he asked.

Christie bounded through the hallway and by them both. “Aye, laddie, yon through ‘ere.” He extended his arm towards the bedroom closest to the bathroom at the end of the hall, and Severus obliged, careful not to let Miss Granger bump her head as he Levitated her through the doorway.

It took just a second to lower her down upon the mattress and he made quick work of using his wand to unfold the quilt at the end of the bed to cover her sleeping form up to her shoulders.

“May I have just a min—” Severus started to ask, but with a turn of his head, he found that they were already alone. Severus exhaled slowly and sunk down to his knees beside her bed.

Heavy chains of regret and guilt had been weighing him down practically his whole life. The weight had been unbearable when he believed that he had failed her completely.

“I tried,” he whispered. He bowed his head and gripped the edge of her quilt tightly. “I swear upon all that is good and holy in this world, I tried.”

THE DARK TOWER, UNPLOTTABLE

__Meanwhile_ _

Lucius stood frozen in the flickering torch-lit room, his casual stance contrasting the wild beating of his racing heart.

Winning had meant that they were safe. They were supposed to be safe. Even, he frowned as the thought crossed his mind, when he had to save the boy from himself.

Lucius met his master’s gaze and then nodded. “My lord.” The words were uttered with feigned reverence. There had been a time when he had revered the dark lord, but his master’s continued slip into madness grated on his sensibilities. Somewhere between Potter’s death and the turbulent times they found themselves, he had lost his enthusiasm for the dark lord’s company. He grit his teeth (in private) each time he thought about having to kneel down before the crazed shell of a man.

Of everything, Lucius revered himself, his family, and his wealth. And power. He valued intelligence and knowledge, the ability to make quick decisions, no matter how difficult they were.

He was faced with such a decision now.

It was the goddess’s knowing smile that had tipped him off.

“You are required, young Mr. Malfoy.” The dark lord was addressing Draco, his serpentine eyes never once cutting over to Lucius.

Draco must have sensed something was wrong as well because his panicked grey eyes met Lucius’s across the short distance that separated them.

In that moment, a montage of images of Draco growing up flashed before Lucius’s eyes, and he stepped forward, gesturing to his son to remain where he was with the lift of his hand. “There’s no need, my lord. I’ll go.”

Draco looked from him to their master with growing distress in his eyes.  _ _Always with his heart on his sleeve!__  Lucius gave an internal sigh for what had to be the millionth time.  _ _When would the boy ever learn?__  He refused to acknowledge the rising regret in his roiling stomach that he most likely wouldn’t be there to see it.

“No.” Draco stepped forward, but Lucius was already at their master’s side.

Lucius inclined his head to Jeh, meeting her smiling eyes with an indifferent and regal nod.

“Very well then.” Voldemort turned with a flourish of his robes and headed towards one of the doors leading out of the large antechamber.

* * *

Draco made to follow, but his father’s parting glance stopped him in his tracks. Grey eyes met grey and, despite everything, despite how much he loathed his father most of the time, Draco knew in that moment that his father loved him. The knowledge was a white-hot ball of misery in the pit of his stomach and he nodded, the only message that he could deliver as they left. His fists clenched at his sides, Draco distanced himself from the small group of Death Eaters in the room, even Goyle, who was watching him with dawning alarm on his wide face, as if he was just now working out that something was not right.

THE EASTERN SEABOARD, UNITED STATES

__Meanwhile (I did a flash forward before...er...so: currently at a point before Sam, Beth, and Toot leave)_ _

Sam’s hand shook at her side and she flexed her fingers, trying to dispel the lingering adrenaline and the rising queasiness. As she neared The Hole, a growing unease increased. She turned and looked behind her several times, but no one was there. The feeling was physical, an itching between her shoulder blades, and had never let her down before. Her steps slowed and as she paused on the littered street, concentrating on her hearing, steps a short distance away coming to an abrupt stop could be heard.

Sam gripped one of the knives up the sleeve of her hoodie, pulling it out with as much stealth as possible. Her brows furrowed and she turned, taking in her surroundings with extra caution.

It was quiet.

She didn’t like it.

She turned in the opposite direction of The Hole and began walking away from the garage, all of her senses firing off. When she could no longer see her uncle’s old building, she paused on the street, turning in a complete circle, her bare feet careful against the concrete so as to not make any noise at all. She quieted and slowed her breathing.

Her eyes narrowed and she palmed her knife as she kept turning, warning clear in her stance.

* * *

Tonks reapplied the Disillusionment Charm on herself, waving her wand in a circling motion, while Nikolai did the same and then cast another Silencio, soundlessly grumbling. Tonks rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him on his big nose, mutely laughing at his noise-less huff.

They returned their attention to the girl staring around with fierce suspicion.

Throwing caution to the wind (for a Hufflepuff, she had a wild streak of Gryffindor in her when the mood struck), Tonks grinned up at Nikolai. His eyes widened in dawning realization (they had been working together for so long, he could sense these things) and he reached for her hand as she bounded away, but she slipped through his fingers, approaching the girl.

Tonks then released the Disillusionment Charm, her hands raised in a friendly surrender.

Tonks was curious, and her curiosity was irresistible.

* * *

********A/N: A few things. Lyrics from the beginning of this chapter are from “Not Today” by Imagine Dragons. The title, Asphodel...the flower asphodel historically meant "My regrets follow you into the grave" which is, of course, to many, a reference to Lily, but I am using it to link to Hermione instead. :) And, I just want to be sure I’m not confusing anyone. Lucius is a piece of work. I don’t deny that. But, he does love his son. I don’t really subscribe to the view that villains or ‘bad guys’ should be portrayed as 100% bad. I mean, Rowling gets away with it with Voldemort, but he’s completely crackers. Also, my beta is worried that having Christie’s dialogue (and others, such as Nikolai) phonetic in places might offend someone. I just want to reach out real quick and say, I love my OCs. I wanted to show accents to honour them, not degrade them. I personally like to see some phonetic dialogue every now and then, but I know that, like anything else, not everyone agrees. If feathers have been ruffled, please let me know how I can improve their accents. Otherwise, rest assured that it’s done in a spirit of love. And, to be fair, I mean, this is fanfiction; Rowling does the same thing with Hagrid and Krum’s dialogue. And, finally, the wild horse of Tartary is a reference to a film/play. The film is from 1910. Christie’s old enough to remember it, though he wouldn’t have been born when it came out. :)** ** ** **


	17. Chapter 16: Reunion

 

ALLERFORD, SOMERSET, ENGLAND

__The following afternoon_ _

 

A knock sounded at the front door. Hermione’s head rose from the salad she was furiously prepping. She dropped the lettuce and stomped around the bar to the entryway, and after checking cautiously to see who was there, she flung the door wide open.

 

Hermione didn’t know the sight she made. Flour and golden brown sugar dusted her cheeks and nose and one of Christie’s folded Marlboro-red bandannas held back her growing curls. An apron that could have possibly been black at some point in time swamped her small form, and she was barefoot, of all things. The steadily rising flush staining her cheeks and her fury-filled eyes amused Severus greatly. He really couldn’t help the trademark smirk that made her fume even more.

 

Severus strode through the open doorway and hung up his overcoat with a light flourish. “May I come in?” he drawled.

 

Hermione glared and practically bared her teeth. “By all means!” She threw up her hands and stomped back to the kitchen. She paused at the sink and both of her hands shot up and rubbed at her eyes in frustration, causing starbursts behind her eyelids. Growling under her breath, not something she was entirely accustomed to, she blinked rapidly, setting her vision to rights.

 

“Wonderful t’ see you again, Mister Snape,” Christie’s eager voice drifted in as he came out of the bathroom, flipping the light switch off as he stepped into the hall.

 

Hermione approached her cutting board and got back to work, keeping her hands busy.

 

Voices grew a bit louder as the two men approached the kitchen. “I hope ye will be amen’ble to supp’n with us, Mister Snape. Herminey,” he declared with a grin, mispronouncing Hermione because he couldn’t handle so many syllables in a front name, “ha’ been shakin’ pans and throwin’ flour all day.” Christie chuckled good-naturedly as they breached the archway into the kitchen and Severus raised his eyebrows at the array of ingredients spread out upon every available surface. Hermione’s back was rigid, ramrod straight, as she refused to turn around and acknowledge either of them. Christie spread his hands wide as he beamed, “Welcome to the veri’ble feast. Coffee? Tea?”

 

Severus nodded. “Coffee, please. Thank you.”

 

Christie indicated for Severus to take a seat, then stretched his arms, a few bones popping as he sat in the chair directly across from Severus. With an audible sigh of comfort, Christie closed his eyes for a second and then turned his head to study the lass. He chuckled softly. He could practically hear her teeth grinding. “Lassie, woul’ ye mind brewing a stron’ pot o’ coffee? Since you’re up,” he added, a teasing glint in his eyes.

 

Hermione didn’t turn around or stop thinly slicing the purple head of cabbage she had moved on to as she answered in a monotone, “Yes, I do mind.”

 

Christie’s fluffy caterpillar eyebrows drew together in disapproval. “Really, lass, I do not hold wit’ disrespect.”

 

Hermione’s shoulders slumped slightly and she didn’t comment, but dropped her knife with a clang and stepped to the sink and turned on the water. Grabbing the percolator with a smidgen more force than necessary, she ground her teeth as she reached into the overhead open cabinet and shuffled the various tea tins to the side as she grasped for the bag of fresh coffee grounds.

 

She made fast work of preparing the coffee to brew and went back to her head of cabbage as quickly as she could. They would use the purple cabbage in the salad, finely shredded in coleslaw, and everything else she could think of. Tuna salad, pasta salad, maybe even spicy cabbage soft tacos made with home-made tortillas, if she could manage the flat bread. She spent the next few minutes chopping and shredding, and lifted the standing metal grater a second time, fine cabbage piled high, then jumped, startled, as the old wind-up timer went off.

 

Her muscles tensing once more, Hermione set the grater aside and rinsed off her hands, then grabbed the two closest mugs hanging on hooks over the sink, and withheld a sigh. She filled both mugs three-fourths of the way full from the percolator and turned, her eyes narrowing at her former professor. She set Christie’s cup before him with a soft drop and then stomped around the small table and set Snape’s before him with little grace. She didn’t mean for it to, but a bit of coffee spilled over the side and dripped down the edge of the cup.

 

Severus raised his eyebrows at her, the intensity of his black eyes making her share eye contact against her will. Five tense seconds passed and then she turned her back abruptly and took a step away. His soft voice jolted, teasing her, and caused her to pause.

 

“Ah, blessed day, the silent treatment.”

 

Blood surged and pounded in her ears and, clenching her hands into tight fists, she whipped around. “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” Hermione said, her voice low, matching his. Her chin jutted out and she ignored the warning daggers that Christie was directing her way. “After ev-ev-” she stuttered, so furious, she couldn’t even talk straight, “everything, you-you-you have the audacity to lace my drink—”

 

“I did you a favour,” Severus cut in calmly, brushing her anger aside as easily as batting away a fly.

 

“A favour!” Hermione burst out, disbelief colouring every decibel of her voice.

 

“Yes, Miss Granger, a favour,” Snape snapped. “You were emotionally and physically exhausted. You were wound up,” he said slowly, condescension deliberately leaking into the low tone of his voice to nettle her. It wasn’t a good idea to bait her, but he hadn’t slept in three days, for Salazar’s sake. “You were so wound up, it was only a matter of time before you did yourself undue harm. I’m regretful,” Severus paused calculatingly, and then continued a second later, “only that it wasn’t my idea.”

 

Hermione’s eyes widened. She swerved accusing eyes at Christie, who grinned at her, clearly enjoying their tableau.

 

“Guilty as charged,” Christie admitted proudly, his eyes twinkling.

 

Hermione stood in shock for a few seconds and then huffed loudly, untying the back of her apron with shaking fingers. Pulling it loose, she tossed it down on the table in disgust and marched out of the kitchen.

 

Before she quite made it through the archway, Severus couldn’t help goading her one more time. “How supremely Gryffindor of you.”

 

Hermione’s shoulders tensed, but she didn’t turn, and tried to appear as if she hadn’t heard him. She made it to her bedroom doorway in a red-tinted haze, and with a satisfying slam, she shut the door behind her.

 

With a mumble-ridden groan, Hermione crossed the room and dropped down onto her bed, the springs creaking slightly. Heaving a world-weary sigh, she flopped back against the mattress.

 

Merciful Goblins. They were too much to bear. Snaking her arm towards the head of the bed, she grabbed her pillow. Exhausted, Hermione twisted and pulled her feet up off of the floor. Goosebumps stood out on her skin as she suddenly noticed the air was heavy with chill. She reached blearily for the quilts and, stuffing her pillow under her cheek, Hermione stretched her legs and then rolled up in the blankets, even going so far as to pull them over her head.

 

There, Hermione thought fuzzily, a cocoon. Feeling safe in the shelter of her bedspread, she blinked slowly until the last of the residual frustration ebbed away. She hadn’t won any rounds today. Her eyes drifted shut and she fell asleep.

 

*   *   *

 

An angled rectangle of light broke the darkness in Hermione’s room, highlighting the drawers of her dresser. Tsk, tsk, Christie muttered under his breath.

 

Soft snoring could be heard from the bundle of blankets. Christie paused and then shrugged his thin shoulders. Nothing el’ for i’. With no show of sympathy, he flipped on the light switch and marched over to her bed, shaking her shoulder until she started to sit up.

 

It was fun, aye, wakin’ people up.

 

The lass blinked owlishly up at Christie, her head barely peeking out of her nestle of quilts. “Wha’sit?” she asked around a yawn.

 

“I’s time t’ get up, missy, the’s what.”

 

Hermione slumped back down on her pillow and pulled her covers back over her head.

 

Christie sat on the empty edge of the bed and bounced up and down. “Wa’e up, wa’e up, wa’e up,” he offered, in a sing-song voice.

 

Hermione grumbled and sat back up, pushing him away halfheartedly. “What are you, five?” Christie only grinned. “Fine,” Hermione huffed, “I’m up, you old goat.”

 

Christie leapt to his feet and bounced on his toes. Crossing the room, he stooped and grabbed a pair of shoes off of the floor and tossed them at her feet with a light thud. Hermione looked up at him from the edge of the bed as she yawned. “Hurry up,” Christie cajoled cheerfully over his shoulder, and then strode through the open door, a definite swagger to his steps. Hermione shook her head, a small smile on her face. It was hard to stay mad at him.

 

Hermione stood and stretched, then rubbed her head, making her curls stick out all over the place in the process. She made it into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. That helped drive away the remaining cobwebs. Looking up, she groaned at the state of her hair. It was as bushy as it ever was, only now it resembled a helmet instead of...well, the unholy disaster that it had always been.

 

Hermione turned on the hot water tap and quickly went through the motions of brushing her teeth then she scooped up handfuls of water to wet her hair and, hopefully, tame the beast. She towel-dried her emerging curls carefully and then left with only a glance in the mirror.

 

Her steps slowed as she neared the end of the hallway, where Professor Snape and Christie stood waiting. Hermione’s arms crossed over her chest protectively as she stared down the man in black.

 

“Are you quite ready, Miss Granger?” Severus asked, his face an expressionless mask.

 

Hermione’s eyes darted towards Christie, who was grinning from ear to ear and bouncing on his toes, back to Snape. “What do you mean?”

 

“There’s a Board meeting tonight, of Order members,” Severus elucidated waspishly, as if he had to explain everything—in—the—entire—world, when in fact, of course, he’d not yet endeavoured to explain anything, to her, at least.

 

“An...Order meeting,” Hermione repeated, taken aback.

 

“An illegal portkey,” Christie announced, his eyes shining with gleeful mischief.

 

Hermione stood stock still, staring at them both.

 

She suddenly noticed the slightly mangled yellow Frisbee Snape was holding in his hand. Her feet had a will of their own and without realizing, she was suddenly standing with them. All she could think about was seeing everyone again. Butterflies and anticipation made her breathless. The Frisbee began to glow and started to vibrate. After everyone had one hand grasped on the old frisbee, the glow became brighter, and then, all of a sudden she felt the familiar but jarring hook behind her bellybutton, reeling her in. She wrenched her eyes shut. Portkeys had never been a favourite method of travel. And then, they were away.

 

NEAR GAIRLOCH, HIGHLANDS, SCOTLAND

 

Hermione landed on the ground with an unsteady drop. A strong hand held her elbow and kept her from sprawling to the ground. Catching her breath, Hermione looked up into black eyes as her former professor let go and turned from her, focusing his attention on Christie, who was very unsteady on his feet.

 

Hermione found her balance and offered Christie an arm and a body to lean on. “Are you alright?” she asked, trying not to look back up at Snape.

 

“Am I alrigh’?” Christie asked, delighted and wobbling at the same time, “b’sides me legs actin’ like a spoonful o’ jello, Ah’m perfect.”

 

Hermione shook her head and eyed her surroundings, her stomach one tightly-coiled knot of nerves. They were standing in a partly-shadowed patch of grass. As the view of the curve of the hills and the ancient trees sunk in, a realization swept over her and she sucked in a breath. “I’ve been here before.” She knew it was true.

 

Severus turned. “You’ve...been here.”

 

Hermione nodded, absolute in her assertion. This is where Draco had brought her, this is where he had left her and promised to return within an hour or so, such a long time ago. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then. “When...I escaped. It was Draco, he brought me here. I kept fading in and out of consciousness, but I will never forget leaving this valley when the sun started to come up after that long night. He promised to come back; I waited throughout the night, but.... At the time, I thought that he must have been killed for letting me go.”

 

Severus ground his teeth together. “It was foolhardy of him to leave you without giving you the address or taking you to the safehouse himself. He must have been called away very urgently by his father. Lucius is never to be trusted.” Severus sighed. There was nothing any of them could do to change the past. “Draco was on duty last night and still doesn’t know his father modified his memory. That won’t be a pleasant revelation. Please allow me to break it to him, Miss Granger.”

 

Hermione nodded and continued to look around. How absurdly unlucky she was. She had been so close. It infuriated her, but, taking a deep breath, she tried to let it go. It was over now.

 

The view was just as staggering as Hermione remembered it to be.

 

They stood in a wide meadow, surrounded on all sides by mountains and trees so old, they could have been planted by the founders of Hogwarts. Fog was heavy in the air, hugging the ground. At this time of the year, everything was brown and going into hibernation. It was a different kind of beauty to the flourish of spring and summer, but not less so. The landscape was such that it made you want to turn in a circle to take it all in.

 

Christie leaned against Hermione, staring around as well, a look of wonder lighting up his face. He let out a low whistle. “Walllll, I’ll be,” he whispered under his breath.

 

“Memorize this address,” Severus said, handing them each a tiny slip of parchment.

 

Hermione read the address over and over, then closed her eyes, repeating it inside of her head: Billey Bend, Slattadale Forest, Scotland. When she opened her eyes, she froze when she saw the log cabin. It was set back against a line of trees near a creek and rose three stories off of the ground. Across the expansive yard, the cabin’s porch was crowded.

 

Hermione’s heart nearly jumped out of her chest. A sharp intake of breath later, she was drinking in all of their faces, biting her bottom lip hard, overjoyed but also suddenly vulnerable.

 

They were so different from before; harder, fiercer, but so dear to her. Hermione’s lower lip trembled. Eyes wide, she looked from one face to the next. Molly, pale and stooped over, had lost a great deal of weight, her extra skin sagging here and there in an unhealthy way. Molly’s face was buried in her apron, her shoulders, those temples of motherhood, were shaking as she cried openly. The twins, oh, bless them, were on either side of their mother, bearing her up with matching exuberant grins on display. Freckles were so thick across their faces now that they appeared to have tans from a distance. Taller and now broad shouldered, they almost looked grown up, but surely that was as misleading as a hinkypunk.

 

Neville surprised her, a head taller than everyone else, and sporting a dark blond beard that any sportsman would be proud of. His blond hair had grown out well past his shoulders and he wore it tied back in a loose ponytail. His eyes were narrowed; he looked troubled to her, and as they made eye contact, she couldn’t read his eyes.

 

Ginny.

 

Long red hair flew back as Ginny half-ran, half-stumbled to Hermione’s side. Ginny’s face was blotchy and it was obvious that she had been crying hard for a really long time. Ginny crushed Hermione in a hug and held on tight, broken sobs escaping every few seconds.

 

Clinging to each other, everything else faded away. Hermione was quite sure that Ginny was crying as much for Harry as for her. But that was okay. Hermione cried for Harry, too.

 

When Hermione’s hiccups finally subsided and Ginny finally stopped shaking, Hermione leaned back and gazed at Ginny, who was furiously wiping her eyes with the edge of her robe and grinning at her sheepishly.

 

“I’m sorry to blubber all over you,” Ginny said, wincing slightly.

 

Hermione shook her head. “Anytime,” she laughed, and swallowed the rising lump in her throat, squeezing Ginny’s forearms. “I can’t believe I’m really here.”

 

A look of naked guilt covered Ginny’s face. “I’m so sorry, Hermione. We-we thought you were...” she trailed off, and bit her lip. “We would have never stopped looking for you for a second if we had known. Even Snape believed....”

 

Hermione nodded, pushing down whatever lingering bitterness she had. Unable to speak, she nodded again, and then let out a tired sigh.

 

Ginny’s voice was raw as she tried to ask the question that had been plaguing her since the night that Voldemort had disappeared with Harry and Hermione in his grasp. “Harry...?” Ginny swallowed thickly, and Hermione reached for her hands.

 

Hermione spoke as kindly as she could, knowing full well that Harry would never forgive her if she ever let Ginny know even a tiny fraction of the hell he’d endured. “In the end,” she said softly, “his heart gave out on him. He’s...he’s at peace, Gin, I can feel it. He...he loved you ever so much.”

 

Ginny closed her eyes and nodded, her face pained, but much more stoic than before. Hermione pulled the younger girl to her without another word, patting her back softly. It was comforting to Hermione that she could do something for Harry. A weight lifted off of her shoulders. She could protect Ginny for him. She could say his goodbyes.

 

When Ginny pulled away, wiping her eyes, she smiled a little sadly, and then sounded much more like her old self. “Come on, Mum’s been cooking since last night when we got the news from Snape. Everyone is dying to hear what you’ve been up to.”

 

* * *

 

****Coming soon in the next chapter: Tonks and Nikolai’s interaction with Sam, Beth, and Tootie; Lucius’ sacrifice. Thank you so much for reading!!** **


End file.
